s 


George  Washington  Flowers 
Memorial  Collection 

DUKE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 


ESTABLISHED  BY  THE 

FAMILY  OF 

COLONEL   FLOWERS 


PETKR  COTTON 


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fay     &££*& 

V*  /  THE 

AMERICAN 
LADYS  PRECEPTOR: 

A    COMPILATION    OP 
OBSERVATIONS,  ESSAYS  AND  POETICAL  EFFUSIONS 

DESIGNED 

TO  DIRECT  THE  FEMALE  MIND 

IN   A  COURSE   OF 

PLEASING  AND  INSTRUCTIVE  READING, 


SECOND  EDITION, 

REVISED,    CORRECTED    AND    ENLARGED. 


i 


BALTIMORE, 

'UBLISHED    BY  EDWARD  J.  COALE,  NO.  176  MAR- 
KET-STREET   "    AND     BY  JOHN  F.  WATSON,   AT  THE 

,  S.  W.  CORNER  OF    CHESNUT    AND    THIRD-STREETS 
PHILADELPHIA. 

JBe?ijamin  Edcs,  Printer. 
1811. 


District  of  Maryland^  to  wit* 

Be  it  remembered,  That  on  this  twenty-seventh 
day  of  August  in  the  thirty-fifth  year  of  the  independ- 
ence of  the  United  States  of  America,  Edward  J. 
Coale,  of  the  said  district  hath  deposited  in  this  office, 
the  title  of  a  book,  the  right  whereof  he  claims  as 
proprietor,  in  the  words  following  ;  to  wit. 

"  The  American  Lady's  Preceptor,  a  com- 
pilation of  Observations,  Essays,  and  Poetical 
Effusions,  designed  to  direct  the  Female  Mind 
in  a  course  of  pleasing  and  instructive  Reading, 
second  edition,  revised,  corrected  and  enlar- 
ged" 

In  conformity  to  the  Act  of  the  Congress  of  the 
United  States,  entitled  "  An  act  for  the  encourage- 
ment of  Learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of  Maps, 
Charts,  and  Books,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of 
such  copies  during  the  times  therein  mentioned  ;"  And 
also  to  the  Act  entitled  "  An  act  supplementary  to 
the  act  entitled,  "  An  act  for  the  encouragement  of 
Learning-,  by  securing  the  copies  of  Maps,  Charts, 
and  Books,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such 
copies  during  the  times  therein  mentioned,"  and  ex- 
tending the  benefits  thereof  to  the  arts  of  designing, 
engraving  and  etching  Historical  and  other  Prints. 
&  PHILIP  MOORE,   Clerk 

of  the  District  of  Mart/land. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THE  compiler  of  the  following  pages  had 
observed,  that  no  volume  of  selections  has  been 
published  in  this  country  especially  designed  for 
the  reading  of  females  ;  and  in  conversation  with 
several  respectable  Teachers  in  Female  Acade- 
tiniesj  he  was  informed  that  a  book  adapted  to  the. 
first  class  in  female  schools,  and  to  young  ladies 
who  had  finished  their  school-education  was  much 
wanted,  and  would  probably  promote  a  general 
taste  for  useful  reading.  These  considerationa 
induced  him  to  present  to  the  public  "  The 
American  Lady's  Preceptor."  He  trusts  he 
shall  not  be  accused  of  vanity,  nor  will  improper 
motives  be  ascribed  to  him,  while  yielding  to  the 
advice  of  several  respectable  friends,  he  publishes 
with  the  work  the  following  honourable  testimo- 
nials in  its  favour. 


RECOMMENDATIONS. 


From  the  Rev.  Doctor  Bend,  to  the  Editor. 

u  I  have  examined  with  great  pleasure  the  A- 
merican  Lad\'s  Pre*  eptor,  and  think  it  better 
suited  than  any  other  book  within  my  knowledge, 
to  be  put  into  the  hands  oi  young  females ;  as.it 
has  an  obvious  tendency  to  amuse  the  fancy,  to 
inform  the  mind,  to  improve  the  taste,  and  to 
mend  the  heart." 


From  the  Rev.  Doctor   Dubourg,    President  of  St. 
Mary's  College. 

U  I  return  you  with  thanks  your  American  La- 
dy's Preceptor,  which  ycu  were  kind  enough  to 
leave  with  me  for  perusal.  A  better  chosen, 
more  instructive,  more  entertaining,  more  moral 
and  chaste  compilation,  has  not  yet  fallen  into  my 
hands. " 


From  the  Reverend  IV.   Staughton,  D.  D.  of  Phila- 
delphia. 

u  I  thank  you  for  the  opportunity  you  have  af- 
forded me  of  perusing  your  American  Lady's  Pre- 
ceptor. The  selections  and  originals  arj  alike 
chaste,  elegant  and  very  instructive.  I  anticipate, 
with  all  the  confidence  that  real  merit  can  create, 


RECOMMENDATIONS. 


the  extensive  diffusion  of  a  volume  which,  to  the 
tutor  and  the  pupil,  must  be  equally  grateful. 
You  have  my  best  wishes  for  your  success  in 
every  attempt  to  widen  the  regions  of  literature 
and  piety." 


From  a  number  of  respectable  jircprictors  of  Ladl.  si 
Schools. 

"  We  the  subscribers,  having  been  favoured 
with  the  perusal  of  a  book,  entitled  "  The  A 
can  Ladifs  Preceptor"  do  hereby  express  cur  cor- 
dial approbation  of  the  same;  and  would  take 
the  liberty  of  recommending  it  to  the  notice  of  all 
persons  presiding  in  female  seminaries,  as  a  work 
eminently  calculated,  to  arrest  the  attention,  in- 
form the  mind,  and  improve  the  heart  of  youth.' ' 

C.  W.  BAZELEY,  D.  JAUDON, 

P.  TUCKETT,  JOHN  POOR, 

-MARIA  RIVARDI,  L.  MORTIMER. 

DECOURT&?  .    c     .     ppnv 

BACONAIS.    \  *       A    BftQWN 


From  Miss  M.  and  Miss  S.  Rooxer.- 
* 
"  Having,  perused  the  copy  of  your  America:-^ 
Lady's  Preceptor,  we  hesitate  not  (though .  with 
diffidence)  to  express  our  high  approbation  of  it, 
we  consider  it,  as  a  work  particularly  calculated 
for  the  perusal  of  the  senior  classes  of  Literal  v 
Establishments,  (for  whom  books  of  useful  in- 
formation, are  much  wanted,)  and  as  the  most 
expressive  proof  that  such  are  oar  sentiments,  shall 
immediately  introduce  it  into  our  seminary," 

A    c> 


CONTENTS. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

page 

The  value  of  Time,  13 

Observations  on  Reading,  14 

Description  of  different  Readers,,  17 
Reasons  against  reading  the  generality  of  Modern 

Novels,  19 

An  Essay  on  Women,  ib„ 

Education,  23 

Studies  proper  for  Women,  ib. 

Religion,  the  best  female  acquirement,  28 

.Advice  to  a  Daughter,  by  Lord  Halifaxt  29 

Pride, .--.,'.         t  32 

Diversions,          .          ,          .          .          .         •    .  .    34 
An  extract  from  Dr.  Gregory' 's  legacy  to  his  daugh- 
ter ,, 40 

The  passions  for  gamintr  in  ladies,  ridiculed,  45 

Letter  from  Mustapha  Rubadub  Keli  Kahn,  48 

Ledyard's  character  of  Women,          .          .  .56 

On  Female  Attractions,               .               .  .59 

Tenderness  to  jVIothers,          .                        ,  60 

Character  of  Two  Sisters,          .                        .  ib. 

Family  Love  and    Harmony,          .            .  .61 

Fenelon  on  Education,          ....  62 

Dr.  Rush  on  Female  Education,              .  .     66 

Dress .  76 

Benevolent  Employments,.     ....  77 

Dr.  Beattie's  opinion  of  Romances,     .         .  78 

Art  of  improving  Beauty,         .  79 

HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

.Filial  Affection,  ...,,.      82 

Maternal  Affection,        ,  ...         83- 


CONTENTS. 

Conjugal  Affection,  ....  S4. 

The  VVomen  of  Hensberg,  .  .  .     85 

Noble  example  of  Virtue  and  Fortitude  in  the  his- 
tory of  Felicitas,  the  Martyr,  .  .  86 
Boadieea,               .               .               ...               96 

Bertha,  .  .  .  ...         06 

Phiiippa  of  Hainault,  .  .  .  97 

Eleanor  of  Castile,        ...  .  101 

Margaret  of  Anjou,  ...  .  ib. 

Lady   Elizabeth  Grey,  •  .  .  .108 

Catharine  of  Arragon,  .  .  .119 

Anna  Boleyn,  .  .  .  126 

Catharine  Par,  ....        *3o 

Maria  Beatrice  D'Este,      .  .  .  136 

Queen  Mary,  .  .  .         144 

Marie  Antoinette,     .  .  .  1,57 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES. 

Miss  Elizabeth  Smith,  .  .  .  .162 

Anna  Maria  Schurman,  .  .  169 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Ferguson,     ....  172 

NARRATIVE. 

The  Black  Velvet  Pelisse,              .          .          .  183 

The  Mother-in- Law,           .           .           .           .201, 
*The  West-Indians, 225 

*An  Abstract  of  Heathen   Mythology,         .  253 

POETRY. 

The  Nautilus  and  the  Oyster,  .  .  .261 

My  Mother,  .  *    "     .  .  .  .         264 

The  Power  of  Innocence,  .  266 

Crazy  Kate,  Cowper,  .  .  .  268 

The  Sexes,  Armstrong,  ....     269 

The  Glow  Wo.rn5  Pindar,  .  .  .        270 

Tc  a  Lady  with  a  Spinning  Wheel,  .  271' 

Ode  to  Pity.  .  .  .  .  .  '       272 

Ode  to  Patience,  G.  H\  C         .         .         .  273 

*To  a  Mother  on  the  Absence  of  her  Daughter,  275 


CONTENTS, 


*  Epitaph  by  Lord  Paltrier  stone,  .  .  27.6* 
Epitaph  on  Mrs.  Mason,            .          .          .  ib, 

*  Monody  by  Lord  Lyttleton,^  .  .  .  277 
*Lines  on  the  death  of  a  Lady,  .  279 
The  Harp  of  Sorrow,  Montgomery,  .  .  2§0 
Character  of  Women, 

The  Falling   Tower,          ....  233 

A  Character,         .         *          .          .          .          .  284 

*The  Rose,                2S5 

Pious  Effusion,  by  a  lady  of  Baltimore,         .  286 

Song,  Akenside,          .....  i'o. 

The  judmment  of  the  Flowers,          .          .          .  2S7 

The  Joy  of  Grief,              .              ...  289 

*The  Doves,  291 

*  Mutual  Forbearance,  .  \.'  .  293 
♦Verses  by  Selkirk,  Cowper,          .         .          .  295 

*  Complaints  of  the  Poor,          ....  297 

*  To  a  Lady  with  a  Nosegay,          ...  298 

*  Beauty,  a  Moral  Refection,     .  .  .299 

Those   marked  thus   (*)   were  not  inserted  in  the 
First  Edition. 


ERRATA. 


Page  29,  for  "  their"  line  17  top  read  they.  Page 
52,  for  "  so'"1  line  13  read  to.  Page  55,  for  "  rage"' 
last  but  one  read  range.  Page  65,  for  "  ingeniou^- 
ness"  line  7  read  ingenousness.  Page  77,  for  u  one'' 
line  12  read  but.  Page  90,  for  "  bed''  last  line  read 
died.  Page  104,  for  u  *piart"  line  25  read  spirit. — 
Page  ill,  for  "  wrapped"  line  25  read  warped.  Page 
1 13,  for  "  of  Dublin'*  last  line  but  two  read  at  Dub- 
1  n.  Page  123,  for  u  it"  last  word  read  in.  Page 
125,  for  "  attained"  line  22  lead  attainted. 
134,  for  "  did  despair"  line  24  read  did  not  despair. 
Page'227,  for  "  very  weeks''  line  7  read  very  few 
•weeks.  Page  269,  lor  "  clime"'  Hne  17  read  climb. 
Page  276,  for  "  wam'd"  line  17  read  warm'd.  Page 
276,  for  "  first"  line  21  read  just. 


PREFATORY    ADDRESS. 


The  education  of  women  has,  at  all  times,  been 
an  object  of  the  most  sedulous  attention  among 
the  more  enlightened  nations  of  Europe.  It  is 
pleasing  to  remark,  as  it  exhibits  the  least  dubious 
proof  of  our  progress  in  refinement,  that  this  very 
important  subject  has,  of  late,  excited  scarcely 
an  inferior  degree  of  interest  in  our  own  country. 
All  our  large  cities  can  now  claim  a  seminary  for 
the  instruction  of  females,  in  which  the  system 
of  education  is  no  longer  narrowed  by  puritani- 
cal illiberality,  or  vitiated  by  the  interference  of 
any  vulgar  prejudices.  It  may,  indeed,  be  truly 
affirmed,  that  the  women  of  the  present  age,  in 
the  United  States,  are  not  excelled  by  those  of 
any  country,  whether  we  look  to  purity  of  morals, 
delicacy  of  deportment,  or  those  delightful  em- 
bellishments which  give  splendour  to  the  face  of 
society. 

The  only  cardinal  defect  in  the  education  of 
our  females,  which  strikes  us,  is,  perhaps,  an  un- 
due appropriation  of  time  to  the  acquisition  of 
those  light  accomplishments,  which  serve  well  to 
enliven  and  decorate  the  early  season  of  life,  but 
which  are  attended  with  no  durable  advantages . 


PREFATORY    ADDRESS. 

The  arts  of  painting,  of  music,  of  dancing,  are 
expensively  and  most  tediously  taught  in  our 
schools,  but  how  seldom  are  they  practised,  af- 
ter the  lapse  of  a  few  years,  even  by  those  who 
have  reached  the  greatest  proficiency. 

We  mean  not,  however,  to  detract  from  the 
value  of  personal  accomplishments — they  are,  on 
the  c  :ntrary,  in  our  estimation  very  essential  fea- 
D  every  scheme  of  liberal  and  polite  edu- 
cation. But  there  are  other  objects  to  which,  we 
think,  they  ought  to  be  subordinate,  and,  espe- 
cially, that  they  should  never  be  allowed  to  en- 
croach on  the  more  important  cultivation  of  the 
intellectual  powers.  As  we  elevate  the  mind,  we 
enlarge  the  sphere  both  of  female  utility,  and  fe- 
male happiness — with  an  intellect  invigorated  by 
discipline,  and  properly  imbued  with  the  love 
of  letters,  a  woman  has  resources  on  which  she 
may  perpetually  draw  in  every  emergency,  or  vi- 
cissitude of  fortune. 

Thus  accomplished,  she,  moreover,  becomes 
better  fitted  to  discharge,  with  success,  the  vari- 
ous, complicated,  and  interesting  duties  incident 
to  her  condition,  and  the  pilgrimage  of  her  ex- 
istence is  rendered  not  only  smooth  and  easy,  but 
dignified  and  useful. 

Convinced,  therefore,  of  the  importance  of  en- 
couraging a  fondness  for  elegant  literature,  in  the 
period  of  childhood,  and  not  less  of  the  neces- 
sity of  guiding  the  immature  judgment  of  girls 
in  the  selection  of  a  proper  species  of  reading, 
the  editor  has,  with   some  labour,  and  no  small 


PREFATORY    ADDRESS. 

care,  prepared  a  work  which  he  trusts  will  be 
found  subservient  to  these  ends. 

Of  the  value  of  compilations,  like  the  one  now 
offered  to  the  public,  little  necu  be  said.  Elegant 
extracts  from  the  pik'er  sources  of  literature  pre- 
sent us,  (as  has  been  happily  expressed  by  one  of 
the  first  classical  writers  of  our  own  country  ,) 
"  with  wisdom  in  a  nut  shell,  and  the  quintess- 
ence of  sweets  in  the  acorn  bowl  of  the  fairies. r> 
They,  at  least,  supply,  at  a  moderate  expence,  the 
place  of  many  books,  and  insinuate  a  taste  for 
reading  which  often  lays  the  foundation  of  very 
extensive  improvement  in  subsequent  life. 

The  editor  cannot  close  this  address,  without 
a  due  acknowledgement  for  the  abundant  success 
of  his  first  edition,  which  has  been  sold  in  little 
more  than  seven  months — in  grateful  return  of 
such  public  patronage,  he  has  redoubled  his  at- 
tention in  the  revision  of  the  second  edition,  and 
by  additional  appropriate  selections,  he  hopes  at 
least  to  retain  the  public  opinion  of  this  favoured 
little  work, 


w^ 


THE 


AMERICAN 
LADY  S  PRECEPTOR. 


THE  VALUE  OF  TIME. 

I   met  with  a  quotation  from  an  old  author,' 
whose  name  was  not  mentioned,  on  this  subject  ; 
the  beauty  and  truth  of  the  passage  struck  me  so 
much  as  to  induce   me  to  lay  it  before   my  rea- 
ders. 

'  Hours  have  wings,  and  fly  up  to  the  author  of 
time,  and  carry  news  of  our  usage.  All  our  prayers 
cannot  entreat  one  of  them  either  to  return  or 
slacken  its  pace.  The  mispense  of  every  minute 
is  a  new  record  against  us  in  heaven.  Sure,  if  we 
thought  thus,  we  would  dismiss  them  with  better 
report  and  not  suffer  them  either  to  go  away- 
empty,  or  laden  with  dangerous  intelligence.-— 
How  happy  is  it  that  every  hour  should  convey  up, 
not  only  the  message,  but  the  fruits  of  good,  and 
stay  with  the  Ancient  of  Days  to  speak  for  us  be- 
fore his  glorious  throne.' 

This  most  solemn  and  serious  exhortation  must 
awaken,  within  the  breasts  of  the  most  unconcern- 

B 


14  OBSERVATIONS  ON  READING. 

ed,  reflections  of  a  serious  nature :  it  shews  us  in 
the  beautiful  simplicity  of  ancient  language,  the  va- 
lue of  every  hour,  nay,  minute ;  that  we  are  ac- 
countable to  the  Almighty  for  the  use  or  abuse  of 
every  moment  of  our  lives.  Let  us  then  endea- 
vour to  pass  the  time  present  in  such  a  manner, 
that  we  may  look  back  on  it  with  satisfaction, 
when  it  becomes  the  past,  and  at  the  end  of  each 
day  be  able  to  say,  behold  a  day  past,  but  not  lost  ; 
then  we  may  look  forward  with  hope  to  that  great 
day,  when  at  the  dread  Tribunal,  we  are  to  deli- 
ver up  an  account  of  all  things  committed  to  our 
care,  when  we  may  say,  4  O  Lord,  of  the  hours 
thou  hast  granted  unto  me,  have  I  lost  none.' 

To  thee,  O  youth,  is  my  exhortation  chiefly  ad- 
dressed ;  thine  is  the  season  when  the  plant  of 
truth  most  flourishes,  which,  if  cultivated  by  a 
parent's  or  guardian's  fostering  hand,  produces 
fruit  an  hundred  fold.  In  the  cheerful  morn  of 
life,  when  innocence  attends  thy  footsteps,  when 
the  cheerful  temper,  the  open  countenance,  the  un- 
embarrassed air,  announce  the  sincerity  of  a  heart 
uncorrupted  by  the  world,  open  to  the  voice  of 
counsel,  and  moulded  into  form  like  yielding  wax : 
then  is  the  time  when  friendly  counsel  should  be 
poured  in. 


OBSERVATIONS  ON  READING. 

IT  is  an  old,  but  very  true  observation,  that 
the  human  mind  must  ever  be  employed.  A  re- 
lish for  reading,  or  any  of  the  fine  arts,  should  be 
cultivated  very  early  in  life :  and  those  who  re- 
flect can  tell,  of  what  importance  it  is  for  the  mind 
to  have  some  resourse  in  itself,  and  not  to  be  en- 
tirely dependant  on  the  senses  for  employment 


OBSERVATIONS  ON  READING.  I£ 

and  amusement.  If  it  unfortunately  is  so.  it  must 
submit  to  meanness,  and  often  to  vice,  in  order  to 
gratify  them.  The  wisest  and  best  are  too  much 
under  their  influence ;  and  the  endeavouring  to 
conquer  them,  when  reason  and  virtue  will  not 
give  their  sanction,  constitutes  great  part  of  the 
warfare  of  life.  What  support,  then,  have  they, 
who  are  all  senses,  and  who  are  full  of  schemes, 
which  terminate  in  temporal  objects  ? 

Reading  is  the  most  rational  employment,  if 
people  seek  food  for  the  understanding,  and  do 
not  merely  repeat  words  and  sentiments  which 
they  do  not  understand  or  feel.  Judicious  books, 
and  only  such,  enlarge  the  mind  and  improve  the 
heart. 

Those  productions  which  give  a  wrong  account 
of  the  human  passions,  and  the  various  accidents 
of  life,  ought  never  to  be  read.  Such  accounts 
are  one  great  cause  of  the  affectation  of  young 
women.  Sensibility  is  described  and  praised,  and 
the  effects  of  it  represented  in  a  way  so  different 
from  nature,  that  those  who  imitate  it  must  make 
themselves  very  ridiculous.  A  false  taste  is  ac- 
quired, and  sensible  books  appear  dull  and  insip- 
id after  those  superficial  performances,  which  ob- 
tain their  full  end  if  they  can  keep  the  mind  in  a 
continual  ferment.  Gallantry  is  made  the  only 
interesting  subject  with  the  novelist;  reading, 
therefore,  will  often  co-operate  to  make  his  fair 
admirers  insignificant. 

I  do  not  mean  to  recommend  only  such  books 
as  are  of  an  abstracted  or  grave  cast.  There  are 
in  our  language  many,  in  which  instruction  and 
innocent  amusement  are  happily  blended ;  these 
should  be  chosen,  and  may  be  easily  selected. 

I  would  have  every  one  try  to  form  an  opinion 
qC  an  author  themselves,  though  modesty  may  re- 


16  OBSERVATIONS  ON  READING. 

strain  them  from  mentioning  it*  Many  arc  so 
anxious  to  have  the  reputation  of  taste,  that  they 
only  praise  the  authors  whose  merit  is  indisputa- 
ble. I  am  sick  of  hearing  of  the  sublimity  of 
Milton,  the  elegance  and  harmony  of  Pope,  and 
the  original  untaught  genius  of  Shakspeare. — 
These  cursory  remarks  are  made  by  some  who 
know  nothing  of  nature,  and  could  not  enter  into 
the  spirit  of  those  authors,  or  understand  them. 

A  florid  style  mostly  passes  with  the  ignorant 
for  fine  writing;  many  sentences  are  admired  that 
have  no  meaning  in  them,  though  they  contain 
4  words  of  thundering  sound,'  and  others  that 
have  nothing  to  recommend  them  but  sweet  and 
musical  terminations. 

The  bible  should  be  read  with  particular  re- 
spect, and  young  persons  should  not  be  taught 
reading  entirely  by  so  sacred  a  book  ;  lest  they 
iiiight  consider  that  as  a  task,  which  ought  to  be 
a  source  of  the  most  exalted  satisfaction. 

It  may  be  observed,  that  I  recommend  the 
mind's  being  put  into  a  proper  train.  Fixed  rules 
cannot  be  given,  it  must  depend  on  the  nature  and 
strength  of  the  understanding;  and  those  who 
observe  it  can  best  tell  what  kind  of  cultivation 
will  impress  It*  The  mind  is  not,  cannot  be  ere  - 
ated  by  the  teacher,  though  it  may  be  cultivated, 
and  its  real  powers  found  out. 

The  active  spirits  of  youth  may  make  time 
glide  away  without  intellectual  enjoyments  ;  but 
when  the  novelty  of  the  scene  is  worn  off,  the  want 
of  them  will  be  felt,  and  nothing  else  can  fill  up 
the  void.  The  mind  is  confined  to  the  body,  and 
must  sink  into  sensuality  :  for  it  has  nothing  to  do 
but  to  provide  for  it  4  how  it  shall  eat  and  drink, 
and  wherewithal  it  shall  be  clothed.' 


DIFFERENT  READERS.  i  T 

All  kinds  of  refinement  have  been  found  fault 
with,  for  encreasing  our  cares  and  sorrows ;  yet 
surely  the  contrary  effect  also  arises  from  them. 
Taste  and  thought  open  many  sources  of  plea- 
sure which  do  not  depend  on  fortune. 

No  employment  of  the  mind  is  a  sufficient  ex- 
cuse for  neglecting  domestic  duties,  but  I  cannot 
conceive  that  they  are  incompatible.  A  woman 
may  fit  herself  to  be  the  companion  and  friend  of 
a  man  of  sense,  and  yet  know  how  to  take  care 
of  his  family. 


A    DESCRIPTION 

OF  DIFFERENT  READERS. 

WITHOUT  attention  in  reading,  it  is  impos* 
sible  to  remember,  and  without  remembering,  it 
is  time  and  labour  lost,  to  read,  or  learn. 

Reading  with  reflection  is  the  basis  of  true  wis- 
dom. 

Idle  or  inattentive  readers,  read  without  under* 
standing  what  they  read. 

Dull  readers,  set  themselves  and  their  hearers 
to  sleep. 

Mumbling,  inarticulate  readers  will  never  make 
other  people  understand  what  they  read,  or  be  lis- 
tened to  with  pleasure. 

Sensibky  judicious  readers  will  read  clearly, 
distinctly  and  with  proper  pauses,  emphasis  and 
cadence;  in  short,  with  a  thorough  understand- 
ing and  feeling  of  every  word  they  utter. 

Whoever  reads  a  perfect  or  finished  composi- 
tion, either  in  poetry  or  prose,  on  any  subject, 
should  read  it  «ven  if  alone,  both  audibly,  distinct- 
ly and  deliberately ;  with  a  due  attention  to  eyery 
22 


18  DIFFERENT  READERS. 

kind  of  stop  or  rest,  with  proper  elevations  and 
depressions  of  the  voice,  and  whatever  else  con- 
stitutes just  and  accurate  pronunciation.  They 
who  despise,  neglect,  or  know  nothing  of  this, 
will,  in  their  reading  such  composition,  not  only 
miss  many  beauties  of  the  style,  but  (which  is 
worse)  will  probably  miss  a  large  portion  of  the 
sense. 

Read  therefore,  mark,  learn  and  inwardly  di- 
gest. 

Every  new  branch  of  taste  that  we#  cultivate, 
affords  us  a  refuge  from  idleness :  and  the  more 
noble  our  employments,  the  more  exalted  will  be 
our  minds. 

The  highest  and  most  important  branch  of  soli- 
tary amusements  is  reading ;  much  depends  on 
the  choice  of  books ;  improper  ones  do  an  irre- 
parable injury  to  the  mind  ,*  but  in  making  a  ju- 
dicious choice,  we  acquire  a  stock  of  knowledge, 
a  mine  which  we  can  occasionally  recur  to,  inde- 
pendent of  outward  circumstances. 

A  sure  way  to  improve  by  reading  is,  to  write 
down  your  opinion  of  such  persons  and  things 
which  occur  to  you  in  your  reading,  to  enquire 
wherein  such  and  such  authors  excel,  or  are  defec- 
tive, to  observe  how  they  might  have  been  carri- 
ed on  to  a  greater  degree  of  perfection,  and  how 
they  excelled  or  fell  short  of  others.  By  thus 
digesting  what  you  read,  you  will  insensibly  rise 
at  proper  notions  of  what  is  truly  amiable. 


ESSAY    ON    WOMEN.  IS 

REASONS     AGAINST     READING     THE 

GENERALITY  OF  MODERN  NOVELS. 

THE  more  extravagant,  absurd  and  ridiculous 
the  novel  is,  the  greater  is  the  probability  of  its 
pleasing  youthful  minds. 

As  love  is  the  foundation,  so  it  is  the  super- 
structure of  most  novels.  But  what  is  that  kind 
of  love  which  is  there  taught  ?  Not  that  tender 
sympathy  of  two  mutual  hearts,  whose  love  is 
founded  on  reason,  prudence  and  virtue  ,*  but  a 
blind,  violent  and  impetuous  passion  which  hur- 
ries its  unhappy  victims  into  endless  woes,  teach- 
es children  disobedience  to  their  parents,  inspires 
them  with  notions  of  self-sufficiency,  and  encou- 
rages them  to  commence  wanderers  at  an  age  in 
which  infant  punishment  ought  to  be  applied,  to 
bring  them  to  their  senses.  Hence  it  is,  perhaps, 
we  may  account  for  this  misconduct  of  many  per- 
sons who,  even  in  the  last  stage  of  their  lives,  act 
in  conformity  to  the  ideas  they  imbibed  in  their 
early  days  from  novels  and  romances.  Can  it 
then  reasonably  be  expected,  that  young  ladies 
who  have  imbibed  such  principles,  should  make 
good  wives,  prudent  mothers,  or  even  agreeable 
companions  ? 

RICHARDSON. 


AN  ESSAY    ON    WOMEN. 

THOSE  who  consider  women  only  as  pretty 
figures,  placed  here  for  ornament,  have  but  a  ve- 
ry imperfect  idea  of  the  sex.     They  perpetually 


20  ESSAY    ON    WOMEN. 

say  that  women  are  lovely  flowers,  designed  to 
heighten  the  complexion  of  nature.  This  is  very 
true  ;  but  at  the  same  time  women  should  not  let 
themselves  be  perverted  by  such  trifling  discourse, 
but  take  care  not  to  be  content  with  these  super- 
ficial advantages.  There  are  too  many  who, 
satisfied  with  that  partition,  seem  to  have  renoun- 
ced any  other  accomplishment  but  that  of  charm- 
ing the  eye.  Women  have  quite  another  destina- 
tion, and  were  created  for  more  noble  ends,  than 
that  of  being  a  vain  spectacle  :  their  beauties  are 
only  heralds  of  more  touching  qualities ;  to  re- 
duce all  to  beauty,  is  to  degrade  them,  and  put 
them  almost  on  a  level  with  their  pictures.  Those 
who  are  only  handsome,  may  make  a  pretty 
figure  in  an  arm-chair,  or  may  decorate  a  draw- 
ing-room :  they  are  literally  fit  to  be  seen  ;  but  to 
find  in  their  acquaintance  all  the  advantages  we 
have  a  right  to  expect,  women  must  have  more 
than  beauty. 

Among  intelligent  beings,  society  should  not  be 
bounded  by  a  cold  exhibition  of  their  persons,  or 
a  dull  conversation  of  lies  and  vanity.  Whatever 
doth  not  tend  to  make  us  better,  corrupts  us  ;  but 
if  women,  who  are  the  ornaments  of  society, 
would  strive  to  join  justness  of  thought,  and  up- 
rightness of  heart,  to  the  graces  of  the  body,  the 
taste  we  have  for  them  would  unfold  excellent 
qualities  in  us  :  let  them  then  raise  their  souls  to 
noble  objects,  and  they  will  ripen  the  seeds  of 
every  virtue  in  men. 

The  empire  which  women  owe  to  beauty,  was 
only  given  them  for  the  general  good  of  all  the 
human  species.  Men,  destined  to  great  actions, 
have  a  certain  fierceness,  which  only  women  can 
correct ;  there  is  in  their  manners,  more  than 
their  features,  a  sweetness  capable  of  bending  that 


ESSAY    ON    WOMEN.  21 

natural  ferocity,  which,  unattempted,  would  soon 
degenerate  into  brutality. 

We  may  well  say,  that  if  we  were  destitute  of 
women,  we  should  all  be  different  from  what  we 
are.  Our  endeavours  to  be  agreeable  to  them, 
polish  and  soften  that  rough  strain  so  natural  to 
us  ;  their  cheerfulness  is  a  counter-balance  to  our 
rough  austere  humours.  In  a  word,  if  men  did 
not  converse  with  women,  they  would  be  less  per- 
fect, and  less  happy  than  they  are. 

That  man  who  is  insensible  to  the  sweetness  of 
female  conversation,  is  rarely  the  friend  to  man- 
kind :  such  cherish  an  insensibility,  which  ren- 
ders even  their  virtues  dangerous. 

If  men  require  the  tender  application  of  wo- 
men to  render  them  more  tractable,  those,  on  the 
other  hand,  equally  want  the  conversation  of  men 
to  awaken  their  vivacity,  and  draw  them  from  a 
negligence  into  which,  if  they  were  not  stimulat- 
ed by  a  desire  of  pleasing,  they  would  certainly 
fall.  That  desire  produces  the  allurements  of  the 
face,  the  grace  of  air,  and  the  sweetness  of  voice  : 
for  whether  they  speak,  move,  or  smile,  they  think 
of  rendering  themselves  agreeable.  Whence  we 
may  conclude,  that  it  is  the  men  who,  ir,  soaafrc  de- 
gree, give  charms  to  the  women ;  who,  without 
them,  would  fall  into  a  sour,  or  indolent  temper. 
Besides,  female  minds,  overwhelmed  with  trifles, 
would  languish  in  ignorance,  if  men,  recalling 
them  to  more  elevated  objects,  did  not  communi- 
cate dignity  and  vigour. 

'Tis  thus,  that  the  two  sexes  ought  to  be  per- 
fected by  one  another.  The  manly  courage  of 
the  one  is  tempered  by  the  softness  of  the  other, 
which,:  in  its  turn,  borrows  from  the  same  cou- 
rage. The  one  acquires,  in  women's  company,  a 
milder  tincture,  while  the  other  lose  their  female 


22  ESSAY    ON    WOMEN. 

levity.  Their  different  qualities  balance  each 
other ;  and  it  is  from  that  mixture,  that  happy- 
accord  arises,  which  renders  them  both  more 
accomplished. 

The  variety  of  minds,  may  be  compared  to  that 
of  voices,  which  would  rather  form  an  agreeable 
concert,  than  a  grating  discord.  If  men  are  of  a 
stronger  frame,  it  is  the  more  effectually  to  con- 
tribute to  the  happiness  of  those  who  are  more 
delicate  ;  one  sex  was  not  designed  to  be  the  op- 
pressor of  the  other  ;  the  intimate  connection  be- 
tween them  is  for  general  advantage,  and  those 
ridiculous  debates  of  superiority,  are  an  insult  to 
nature,  and  an  ingratitude  for  her  benefits. 

We  are  born  womens'  friends,  not  their  rivals, 
much  less  their  tyrants;  and  that  strength  which 
was  given  us  for  their  defence,  is  abused,  when 
thereby  we  enslave  them  ;  and  to  banish  from  so- 
ciety its  sweetest  charm,  that  part  of  the  human 
species  which  is  most  proper  to  animate  it,  would 
render  it  quite  insipid. 

The  truth  of  this,  hath  been  proved  by  the  peo- 
ple of  the  East,  who,  joining  together  a  sense  of 
their  own  weakness  and  a  brutal  passion,  have  re- 
garded women  as  dangerous  companions,  against 
whom  they  must  be  on  their  guard:  therefore 
they  have  enslaved  that  sex  to  avoid  being  enslav- 
ed by  them,  and  have  thought  too  much  love 
gave  them  a  title  to  misuse  them  :  but  these  ty- 
rannic masters  have  been  the  first  victims  of  their 
tyrannic  jealousy.  Devoted  to  a  lonely,  melan- 
choly life,  they  have  sought  for  tender  sensations 
in  vain,  amidst  their  fair  slaves.  Sensibility,  with 
the  delicacy,  ever  its  companion,  are  only  to  be 
found  in  the  reign  of  freedom,  since  they  both 
necessarily  shun  a  society,  void  of  those  springs 
whence  they  might  grow. 

LITERARY    MISCELLANY. 


ON4  STUDIES    FOR    WOMEN. 


EDUCATION. 

ADDISON  observes,  that  a  human  soul  with- 
out education,  is  like  marble  in  a  quarry,  which 
shews  none  of  its  inherent  beauties  until  the  skill 
of  the  polisher  makes  the  surface  shine,  and  dis- 
covers every  ornamental  spot  and  vein  that  runs 
through  the  body  of  it.  Education,  when  it  works 
upon  a  noble  mind,  in  the  same  manner  draws  out 
to  view,  every  latent  virtue  and  perfection,  which, 
without  such  help,  arc  never  able  to  make  their 
appearance. 

Whatever  you  undertake  in  the  course  of  your 
education,  strive  to  excel  in  it.  To  learn  things 
bv  halves,  is  learning  to  little  purpose  ;  and  those 
who  do  not  make  a  due  progress  in  what  they  are 
taught,  affront  their  teachers,  disappoint  their  pa- 
rents, and,  to  their  own  shame,  are  suspected  of 
idleness,  or  want  of  capacity,  an  imputation  they 
should  wish  to  avoid. 


AN    ESSAY    ON    THE 

STUDIES    PROPER    FOR   WOMEN. 

TO  prohibit  women  entirely  from  learning,  is 
treating  them  with  the  same  indignity  that  Maho- 
met did,  who  denied  them  souls;  indeed  the  great- 
est part  of  women  act  as  if  they  had  really  adopt- 
ed a  tenet  so  injurious  to  the  sex. 

When  we  consider  the  happy  talents  which  wo- 
men in  general  possess,  and  how  successfully  some 
have  cultivated  them,  we  cannot  without  indigna- 
tion observe  the  little  esteem  they  have  for  the 


24  ON    STUDIES    FOB.    WOMEN. 

endowments  gf  their  minds,  which  it  is  so  easy 
for  them  to  improve.  They  are,  as  Montaigne 
says,  "  flowers  of  quick  growth,  and  by  the  deli- 
cacy of  their  conception,  catch  readily  and  without 
trouble,  the  relation  of  things  to  each  other." 

The  charms  of  their  persons,  how  powerful 
soever,  may  attract,  but  cannot  fix  us  ;  something 
more  than  beauty  is  necessary  to  rivet  the  lover's 
chain.  By  often  beholding  a  beautiful  face,  the 
impression  it  first  made  soon  wears  away.  When 
the  woman  whose  person  we  admire,  is  incapable 
of  pleasing  us  by  her  conversation,  langour  and 
satiety  soon  triumph  over  the  relish  we  had  for 
her  charms  :  hence  arises  the  inconstancy  with 
which  men  are  so  often  reproached;  that  barren- 
ness of  ideas  which  we  find  in  women,  renders 
men  unfaithful. 

The  ladies  may  judge  of  the  difference  there 
is  among  them,  by  that  which  they  themselves 
make  between  a  fool  who  teases  them  with  his 
impertinence,  and  a  man  of  letters  who  entertains 
them  agreeably  ;  a  very  little  labour  would  equal 
them  to  the  last,  and  perhaps  give  them  the  ad- 
vantage. This  is  a  kind  of  victory  which  we  wish 
to  yield  them. 

The  more  they  enlarge  their  notions,  the  more 
subjects  of  conversation  will  be  found  between 
them  and  us,  and  the  more  sprightly  and  affecting 
will  that  conversation  be.  How  many  delicate 
sentiments,  how  many  nice  sensibilities  are  lost  by 
not  being  communicable,  and  what  an  increase  of 
satisfaction  should  we  feel  could  we  meet  with 
women  disposed  to  taste  them. 

But  what  are  the  studies  to  which  women  may 
with  propriety  apply  themselves  ?  This  question 
I  take  upon  myself  to  answer.  I  would  particu- 
larly recommend  to  them  to  avoid  all  abstract 


ON    STUDIES    FOR    WOMEN*  26 

learning,  all  difficult  researches,  which  may  blunt 
the  finer  edge  of  their  wit,  and  change  the  delica- 
C)r  in  which  they  excel  into  pedantic  coarseness. 

It  is  in  such  parts  of  learning  only  as  afford  the 
highest  improvement  that  we  invite  women  to 
share  with  us.  All  that  may  awaken  curiosity, 
and  lend  graces  to  the  imagination,  suits  them 
still  better  than  us.  This  is  a  vast  field,  where 
we  may  together  exercise  the  mind  ;  and  here 
they  may  even  excel  us  without  mortifying  our 
pride. 

History  and  natural  philosophy  are  alone  suffi- 
cient to  furnish  women  with  an  agreeable  kind  of 
Study.  The  latter,  in  a  series  of  useful  observa- 
tions and  interesting  experiments,  offers  a  specta- 
cle well  worthy  the  consideration  of  a  reasonable 
being.  But  in  vain  does  nature  present  her  mi- 
racles to  the  generality  of  women,  who  have  no 
attention  but  to  trifles. 

Yet  surely  it  requires  but  a  small  degree  of  at- 
tention to  be  struck  with  that  wonderful  harmony 
which  reigns  throughout  the  universe,  and  to  be- 
come ambitious  of  investigating  its  secret  springs. 
This  is  a  large  volume  open  to  all  ;  here  a  pair 
of  beautiful  eyes  may  employ  themselves  with- 
out being  fatigued.  This  amiable  study  will 
banish  langour  from  the  sober  amusements  of  the 
country,  and  repair  that  waste  of  intellect  which 
is  caused  by  the  dissipations  of  the  town.  Wo- 
men cannot  be  too  milch  excited  to  raise  theif 
eyes  to  objects  like  these,  which  they  but  too  often 
cast  down  to  such  as  are  unworthy  of  them. 

The  sex  is  more  capable  of  attention  than  we 
imagine  :  what  they  chiefly  want  is  a  well-direct- 
ed application.  There  is  scarcely  a  young  girl 
who  has  not  read  with  eagerness  a  great  number 
of  idle  romances,  sufficient  to  corrupt  her  imagi- 
c 


26  ON    STUDIES    FOR    WOMEN. 

nation  and  cloud  her  understanding.  If  she  had 
devoted  the  same  time  to  the  study  of  history,  in 
those  varied  scenes  .she  would  have  found  facts 
more  interesting,  and  instruction  which  only  truth 
can  give. 

Those  striking  pictures  that  are  displayed  in 
the  annals  of  the  human  race,  are  highly  proper 
to  direct  the  judgment,  and  form  the  heart.  Wo- 
men have  at  all  times  had  so  great  a  share  in 
events,  that  they  may  with  reason  consider  our 
archives  as  their  own  ;  nay,  there  are  many  of 
them  who  have  written  memoirs  of  the  severaL 
events  of  which  they  had  been  eye-witnesses. 
Christina,  of  Pisan,  daughter  to  the  astronomer, 
patronized  by  the  emperor  Charles  the  Fifth,  has 
given  us  the  life  of  that  prince  ;  and  long  before 
her,  the  princess  Anna  Commenus  wrote  the  his- 
tory of  her  own  times.  We  call  upon  the  ladies 
to  assert  their  rights,  and  from  the  study  of  his- 
torv,  to  extract  useful  lessons  for  the  conduct  of 
life. 

This  study,  alike  pleasing  and  instructive,  will 
naturally  lead  to  that  of  the  fine  arts.  The 
arts  are  in  themselves  too  amiable  to  need  any  re- 
commendation to  the  sex  :  all  the  objects  they 
offer  to  their  view  have  some  analogy  with  wo- 
men, and  are  like  them  adorned  with  the  brightest 
colours.  The  mind  is  agreeably  soothed  by  those 
images  which  poetry,  painting  and  music  trace 
out,  especially  if  they  are  found  to  agree  with 
purity  of  manners. 

To  familiarize  ourselves  with  the  arts,  is  in 
some  degree  to  create  a  new  sense.  So  agreeably 
have  they  imitated  nature  ;  nay,  so  often  have 
they  embellished  it,  that  whoever  cultivates  them, 
wili  in  them  always  find  a  fruitful  source  of  new 
pleasures.     We  ought  to  provide  against  the  en- 


ON  STUDIES  FOR  WOMEN.  27 

erdachments  of  langour  and  weariness  by  this 
addition  to  our  natural  riches ;  and  surely  when 
we  may  so  easily  transfer  to  ourselves  the  posses- 
sion of  that  multitude  of  pleasing  ideas  which 
they  have  created,  it  would  be  the  highest  stupi- 
dity to  neglect  such  an  advantage. 

There  is  no  reason  to  fear  that  the  ladies,  by 
applying  themselves  to  these  studies,  will  throw 
a  shade  over  the  natural  graces  of  their  wit.  On 
the  contrary,  those  graces  will  be  placed  in  a 
more  conspicuous  point  of  view.  What  can  equal 
the  pleasure  we  receive  from  the  conversation  ot 
a  woman  who  is  more  solicitous  to  adorn  her  mind 
than  her  person  ?  in  the  company  of  such  women 
there  can  be  no  satiety;  every  thing  becomes  in- 
teresting, and  has  a  secret  charm  which  only  they 
can  give.  The  happy  art  of  saying  the  most  in- 
genious things  with  a  graceful  simplicity  is  pecu- 
liar to  them ;  they  call  forth  the  powers  of  wit  in 
men,  and  communicate  to  them  that  easy  elegance 
which  is  never  to  be  acquired  in  the  closet. 

But  what  preservative  is  there  against  disgust 
in  the  society  of  women  of  unimproved  under- 
standings ?  in  vain  do  they  endeavour  to  fill  up  the 
void  of  their  conversation  with  insipid  gaiety  * 
they  soon  exhaust  the  barren  fund  of  fashionable 
trifles,  the  news  of  the  day,  and  hacknied  compli- 
ments ;  they  are  at  length  obliged  to  have  re- 
course to  scandal,  and  it  is  well  if  they  stop  there  : 
a  commerce  in  which  there  is  nothing  solid,  must 
be  either  mean  or  criminal. 

There  is  but  one  way  to  make  it  more  varied 
and  more  interesting.  If  ladies  of  rank  would 
condescend  to  form  their  taste  and  collect  ideas 
from  our  best  authors,  conversation  would  take 
another  cast :  their  acknowledged  merit  would 
banish  that  swarm  of  noisy  impertinents  who  flur- 


28  ON    RELIGION. 

ter  about  them,  and  endeavour  to  render  them  as 
contemptible  as  themselves :  men  of  sense  and 
learning  would  frequent  their  assemblies,  and 
form  a  circle  more  worthy  of  the  name  of  good 
company. 

In  this  new  circle,  gaiety  would  not  be  banish- 
ed, but  refined  by  delicacy  and  wit.  Merit  is  not 
austere,  a  calm  and  uniform  cheerfulness  runs 
through  the  conversation  of  persons  of  real  un- 
derstanding, which  is  far  preferable  to  the  noisy 
mirth  of  ignorance  and  folly.  The  societies  form- 
ed by  the  Sevignes,  the  Fayettes,  the  Sablieres, 
with  the  Vevonnes,  the  La  Fares,  and  Rochefou- 
caults,  were  surely  more  pleasing  than  the  assem- 
blies of  our  days.  Among  them  learning  was  not 
pedantic,  nor  wisdom  severe ;  and  subjects  of 
the  highest  importance  were  treated  with  all  the 
sprightliness  of  wit. 

The  ladies  must  allow  me  once  more  to  repeat 
to  them,  that  the  only  means  of  charming,  and  of 
charming  long,  is  to  improve  their  minds  :  good 
sense  gives  beauties  which  are  not  subject  to  fade 
like  the  lillies  and  roses  of  their  cheeks,  but  will 
prolong  the  power  of  an  agreeable  woman  to  the 
zutumn  of  her  life. 


RELIGION, 

THE   BEST   FEM.UK   AC  QUI  lit:  M  EST  . 

WITHOUT  religion  no  lady's  education 
can  be  compleat.  True  religion  (as  an  elegant 
author  observes)  is  the  joint  refulgence  of  all  the 
virtues.  It  resembles  the  sun,  at  whose  sight  all 
the  stars  hide  their  diminished  heads.  It  breathes 


adVice  to  a  daughter.  29 

benevolence  and  love  to  man.  The  truly  pious 
serve  God,  their  creator  and  benefactor,  with 
their  whole  soul.  They  honour  and  love  him, 
not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  their  promised  re- 
ward, as  for  the  benefits  they  have  received,  and 
are  more  actuated  by  gratitude  than  hope.  They 
are  severe  to  themselves,  and  compassionate  to 
others.  They  endeavour  to  reclaim  the  errone- 
ous, not  by  severity,  but  meekness.  They  are 
always  similar  to  themselves,  and  serve  God  uni- 
formly, not  by  fits  and  starts.  They  are  at  peace 
with  all  men.  They  comfort  the  afflicted,  support 
the  distressed,  and  clothe  the  naked.  They  nei- 
ther exult  in  prosperity,  nor  sink  in  adversity,  but 
remain  contented  with  the  will  of  God,  and  pa- 
tiently bear  those  afflictions  he  is  pleased  to  lay 
upon  them.  Their  shew  their  piety  not  in  theory 
but  in  practice;  not  in  words,  but  works.  They 
are  not  led  by  fear,  ambition,  or  worldly  interest, 
but  by  love  to  the  author  of  their  being.  They 
strive  to  promote  the  good  of  all  men,  and  labour 
to  secure  eternal  bliss. 


ADVICE  TO  A  DAUGHTER. 

BY   LORD  HALIFAX, 

FRIENDSHIP. 

fThe  Editor  introduces  Lord  Halifax  to  the  reader 
rather  on  account  of  the  good  sense  by  which  his 
Advice   is    distingu'shed,  than   on    account  of  hia 
style  ;  which  abounds  with  the  quaintness  ©f  former 
times. }j 

I  M  UST,  in  particular,  recommend  to  you  a* 
strict  care  in  the  choice  of  your  friendships-  Per— 

C  2 


30  ADVICE  TO   A  DAUGHTER. 

haps  the  best  are  not  without  their  objections,  but 
however,  be  sure  that  yours  may  not  stray  from 
the  rules  which  the  wiser  part  of  the  world  hath 
set  to  them.  The  leagues,  offensive  and  defen- 
sive, seldom  hold  in  politics,  and  much  less  in 
friendships.  Besides,  these  great  attachments,  by 
degrees,  grow  injurious  to  the  rest  of  your  ac- 
quaintance, and  throw  them  off  from  you.  There 
is  such  an  offensive  distinction  when  the  dear 
friend  comes  into  the  room,  that  it  is  flinging  stones 
at  the  company,  who  are  not  apt  to  forgive  it. 

Do  not  lay  out  your  friendship  too  lavishly  at 
first,  since  it  will,  like  other  things,  be  so  much 
the  sooner  spent ;  neither  let  it  be  of  too  sudden 
a  growth ;  for  as  the  plants  which  shoot  up  too 
fast,  are  not  of  that  continuance  as  those  which 
take  more  time  for  it ;  so  too  swift  a  progress  in 
pouring  out  your  kindness,  is  a  certain  sign  that 
by  the  course  of  nature  it  will  not  be  long  lived. 
You  will  be  responsible  to  the  world,  if  you  pitch 
upon  such  friends  as  at  that  time  are  under  the 
weight  of  any  criminal  objection.  In  that  case, 
you  will  bring  yourself  under  the  disadvantages 
of  their  character,  and  must  bear  your  part  of  it. 
Choosing  implies  approving;  and  if  you  fix  upon 
a  lady  for  your  friend  against  whom  the  world 
hath  given  judgment,  'tis  not  so  well  natured  as  to 
believe  you  are  altogether  averse  to  her  way  of 
Jiving,  since  it  doth  not  discourage  you  from  ad- 
mitting her  into  your  kindness.  And  resemblance 
of  inclinations  being  thought  none  of  the  least 
inducements  to  friendship,  you  will  be  looked  up- 
on as  a  well  wisher,  if  not  a  partner  with  her  in  her 
faults.  If  you  can  forgive  them  in  another,  it  may 
£>e  presumed  you  will  not  be  less  gentle  to  yourself; 
and  therefore  you  must  not  take  it  ill,  if  you  are 
reckoned  a  copier,   and  condemned  to  pay  aj? 


ADVICE  TO    A    tiAUGHTfR.  31 

equal  share  with    a  friend  of  the   reputation  she 
hath  lost. 

If  it  happens  that  your  friend  should  fall  from 
the  state  of  innocence,  after  your  kindness  was 
engaged  to  her,  you  may  be  slow  in  your  belief 
in  the  beginning  of  the  discovery  :  but  as  soon  as 
you  are  convinced  by  a  rational  evidence,  you 
must,  without  breaking  too  roughly,  make  a  fair 
and  quick  retreat  from  such  a  mistaken  acquain- 
tance :  else  by  moving  too  slowly  from  one  that  is 
so  tainted,  the  contagion  may  reach  you  so  far  as  to 
give  you  part  of  the  scandal,  though  not  of  the 
guilt.  This  matter  is  so  nice,  that  as  you  must 
not  be  too  hasty  to  join  in  the  censure  upon  your 
friend  when  she  is  accused,  so  you  are  not,  on  the 
other  side,  to  defend  her  with  too  much  warmth  : 
for  if  she  should  happen  to  deserve  the  report  of 
common  fame,  besides  the  vexation  that  belongs 
to  such  a  mistake,  you  will  draw  an  ill  appearance 
upon  yourself,  and  it  will  be  thought  you  pleaded 
for  her,  not  without  some  consideration  for  your- 
self. The  anger  which  must  be  put  on  to  vindi- 
cate the  reputation  of  an  injured  friend,  may  in- 
cline the  company  to  suspect  you  would  not  be  so 
zealous,  if  there  was  not  a  possibility  that  the  case 
might  be  your  own.  For  this  reason,  you  are  not  to 
carry  your  attachments  so  far  as  absolutely  to  lose 
your  sight  where  your  friend  is  concerned.  Be- 
cause malice  is  too  quick  sighted,  it  doth  not  fol- 
low, that  friendsip  must  be  blind  ;  there  is  to  be 
a  mean  between  these  two  extremes,  else  your  ex- 
cess of  good  nature  may  betray  you  into  a 
Very  ridiculous  figure,  and  by  degrees  you  may 
be  preferred  to  such  offices  as  you  will  not  be 
proud  of. 

Let  the  good  sense  of  your  friends  be  a  chief 
ingredient  in  your  choice  of  them  ;   else  let  your 


52  PRIDE. 

reputation  be  ever  so  clear,  it  may  be  clouded  by 
their  impertinence.  It  is  like  our  houses  being 
in  the  power  of  a  drunken  or  a  careless  neighbour: 
only  so  much  worse,  as  that  there  will  be  no  insur- 
ance here  to  make  you  amends,  as  there  is  in  the 
case  of  fire. 

To  conclude  this  paragraph  ;  if  formality  is  to 
he  allowed  in  any  instance,  it  is  to  be  put  on  to 
i-esist  the  invasion  of  such  forward  women  as 
shall  press  themselves  into  your  friendship,  where, 
if  admitted,  they  will  either  be  a  snare  or  an  in- 
cumbrance. 


PRIDE, 


THIS  is  an  ambiguous  word;  one  kind  of  it 
is  as  much  a  virtue,  as  the  other  is  a  vice  :  but 
we  are  naturally  so  apt  to  choose  the  worst,  that 
it  is  become  dangerous  to  commend  the  best 
side  of  it. 

A  woman  is  not  to  be  proud  of  her  fine  gown  j 
nor  when  she  hath  less  wit  than  her  neighbours,  to 
comfort  herself* that  she  hath  more  lace.  Some 
ladies  put  so  much  weight  upon  ornaments,  that 
if  one  could  see  into  their  hearts,  it  would,  be 
found,  that  even  the  thoughts  of  death  is  made 
less  heavy  to  them  by  the  contemplation  of  their 
being  laid  out  in  state,  and  honourably  attended 
to  the  grave.  One  may  come  a  good  deal  short 
of  such  an  extreme,  and  yet  still  be  sufficiently 
impertinent,  by  setting  a  wrong  value  upon  things,, 
which  ought  to  be  used  with  more  indifference. 
A  lady  must  not  appear  solicitous  to  engross  re- 
spect to  herself,  but  be  content  with  a  reasonable 
distribution,  and  allow  it  to  others,  that  she  ma^c 


PRIDE.  3S 

have  it  returned  to  her.  She  is  not  to  be  trouble- 
s-omely  nice,  nor  distinguish  herself  by  being  too 
delicate,  as  if  ordinary  things  were  too  coarse  for 
her  ;  this  is  an  unmannerly  and  an  offensive  pride, 
and  where  it  is  practised,  deserves  to  be  mortifi- 
ed, of  which  it  seldom  fails.  She  is  not  to  lean  too 
much  upon  her  quality,  much  less  to  despise  those 
who  are  below  it.  Some  make  quality  an  idol, 
and  then  their  reason  must  fall  down  and  worship 
it.  They  would  have  the  world  think,  that  no 
amends  can  ever  be  made  for  the  want  of  a  great 
title,  or  an  ancient  coat  of  arms  :  they  imagine, 
that  with  these  advantages  they  stand  upon  the 
higher  ground,  which  makes  them  look  down  up- 
on merit  and  virtue,  as  things  inferior  to  them. — 
This  mistake  is  not  only  senseless,  but  criminal 
too,  in  putting  a  greater  price  upon  that  which  is  a 
piece  of  good  luck,  than  upon  things  which  are 
valuable  in  themselves.  Laughing  is  not  enough 
for  such  a  folly ;  it  must  be  severely  whipped,  as 
it  justly  deserves.  It  will  be  confessed,  there  are, 
frequent  temptations  given  by  pert  upstarts  to  be 
angry,  and  thereby  to  have  our  judgments  corrupt- 
ed in  these  cases  ;  but  they  are  to  be  resisted  ; 
and  the  utmost  that  is  to  be  allowed,  is,  when 
those  of  a  new  edition  will  forget  themselves,  so 
as  either  to  brag  of  their  weak  side,  or  endeavour 
to  hide  their  meanness  by  their  insolence,  to  cure 
them,  by  a  little  seasonable  raillery,  a  little  sharp- 
ness well  placed,  without  dwelling  too  long  upon  it. 

These  and  many  other  kinds  of  pride  are  to  be 
avoided. 

That  which  is  to  be  recommended  to  you,  is  an 
emulation  to  raise  yourself  to  a  character,  by 
which  you  may  be « distinguished:  an  eagerness 
for  precedence  in  virtue,  and  all  such  other  things 
is  may  gain  you  a  greater  share  of  the  good  opi~ 


34  DIVERSIONS. 

nion  of  the  world.  Esteem  to  virtue  is  like  a  che- 
rishing air  to  plants  and  flowers,  which  makes 
them  blow  and  prosper;  and  for  that  reason  it 
may  be  allowed  to  be,  in  some  degree,  the  cause 
as  well  as  the  reward  of  it.  That  pride  which 
leadeth  to  a  good  end,  cannot  be  a  vice,  since  it  is 
the  beginning  of  a  virtue  ;  and  to  be  pleased  with 
just  applause,  is  so  far  from  a  fault,  that  it  would 
be  an  ill  symptom  in  a  woman,  who  should  not 
place  the  greatest  part  of  her  satisfaction  in  it. — 
Humility  is  no  doubt  a  great  virtue  ;  but  it  ceas- 
eth  to  be  so,  when  it  is  afraid  to  scorn  an  ill  thing. 
Against  vice  and  folly  it  is  becoming  your  sex  to 
be  haughty  ;  but  you  must  not  carry  the  contempt 
of  things  to  arrogance  towards  persons,  and  it 
must  be  done  with  fitting  distinctions,  else  it  may 
be  inconvenient  by  being  unseasonable.  A  pride 
that  raises  a  little  anger  to  be  outdone  in  any  thing 
that  is  good,  will  have  so  good  an  effect,  that  it  is 
very  hard  to  allow  it  to  be  a  fault. 

It  is  no  easy  matter  to  carry  even  between  these 
different  kinds  so  described;  but  remember  that 
it  is  safer  for  a  woman  to  be  thought  too  proud, 
than  too  familiar. 


DIVERSIONS. 

THE  next  thing  I  shall  recommend  to  you, 
is  a  wise  and  a  safe  method  of  using  diversions. 
To  be  too  eager  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasure  whilst 
you  are  young,  is  dangerous ;  to  catch  at  it  in  ri- 
per years,  is  grasping  a  shadow;  it  will  not  be 
held.  Besides  that  by  being  less  natural,  it  grows 
to  be  indecent.  Diversions  are  the  most  proper- 
ly applied,  to  ease   and  relieve  those  who  are 


DIVERSIONS.  3a 

oppressed,  by  being  too  much  employed.  Those 
that  are  idle- have  no  need  of  them,  and  yet  they 
above  all  others,  give  themselves  up  to  them.-— 
To  unbend  our  thoughts,  when  they  are  too  much 
stretched  by  our  cares,  is  not  more  natural  than 
it  is  necessary,  but  to  turn  our  whole  life  into  a 
holiday,  is  not  only  ridiculous,  but  destroys  plea- 
sure, instead  of  promoting  it.  The  mind,  like 
the  body,  is  tired  by  being  always  in  one  postur^ 
too  serious  breaks,  and  too  diverting  loosens  it : 
it  is  variety  that  gives  the  relish ;  so  that  diver- 
sions too  frequently  repeated,  grow  first  to  be  in- 
different, and  at  last  tedious.  Whilst  they  are 
well  chosen  and  well  timed,  they  are  never  to  be 
blamed  ;  but  when  they  are  used  to  an  excess, 
though  very  innocent  at  first,  they  often  grow  to 
be  criminal,  and  never  fail  to  be  impertinent. 

Some  ladies  are  bespoken  for  merry  meetings, 
as  Bessus  was  for  duels.  They  are  engaged  in  a 
circle  of  idleness,  where  they  turn  round  for  the 
whole  year,  without  the  interruption  of  a  serious 
hour.  They  know  all  the  players'  names  and  are 
intimately  acquainted  with  all  the  booths  in  Bar- 
tholomew fair.  No  soldier  is  more  obedient  to 
the  sound  of  his  captain's  trumpet,  than  they  are 
to  that  which  summons  them  to  a  puppet,  play,  or 
monster.  The  spring  that  brings  out  flies  and 
fools,  makes  them  inhabitants  of  Hyde  Park  :  in 
the  winter  they  are  incumbrances  to  the  play  house 
and  the  ballast  of  the  drawing-room.  The  streets 
all  this  while  are  so  weary  of  these  daily  faces, 
that  men's  eyes  are  overlaid  with  them.  The 
Sight  is  glutted  with  fine  things,  as  the  stomach 
with  sweet  ones ;  when  a  fair  lady  will  give 
too  much  of  herself  to  the  world,  she  oppresses, 
instead  of  pleasing.     These  ladies  50  continually 


35  DIVERSIONS. 

seek  diversion,  that  in  little  time  they  grow  into 
a  jest,  yet  are  unwilling  to  remember,  that  if  they 
are  seldomer  seen,  they  would  not  be  so  often 
laughed  at.  Besides,  they  make  themselves 
cheap,  than  which  there  cannot  be  an  unkinder 
■word  bestowed  upon  your  sex. 

To  play  so  as  to  be  called  a  gamester,  is  to  be 
avoided,  next  to  the  things  that  are  most  crimi- 
nal. It  hath  consequences  of  several  kinds  not 
to  be  endured  :  it  will  engage  you  into  a  habit  of 
idleness  and  ill  hours,  draw  you  into  ill  mixed 
company,  make  you  neglect  your  civilities  abroad 
and  your  business  at  home,  and  impose  into  your 
acquaintance  such  as  will  do  you  no  credit. 

To  deep  play  there  will  be  yet  greater  objec- 
tions. It  will  give  occasion  to  the  world  to  ask 
spiteful  questions.  How  you  dare  venture  to  loose, 
and  what  means  you  have  to  pay  such  large  sums  ? 
If  you  pay  exactly,  it  will  be  enquired  from 
v/hence  the  money  comes  ?  If  you  owe,  and  espe- 
xially  to  a  man,  you  must  be  so  very  civil  to  him 
for  his  forbearance,  that  it  lays  a  ground  of  hav- 
ing it  farther  improved,  if  the  gentleman  is  so  dis- 
posed ;  He  will  be  thought  no  unfair  creditor,  if 
where  the  estate  fails,  he  seizes  upon  the  person. 
Besides,  if  a  lady  could  see  her  own  face  upon 
an  ill  game,  at  a  deep  stake,  she  would  certainly 
forswear  any  thing  that  could  put  her  looks  under 
such  a  disadvantage. 

To  dance  sometimes,  will  not  be  imputed  to 
you  as  a  fault ;  but  remember,  that  the  end  of 
your  learning  it,  was,  that  you  might  the  better 
know  how  to  move  gracefully.  It  is  only  an  ad- 
vantage so  far.  When  it  goes  beyond  it,  one 
may  call  it  excelling  in  a  mistake  which  is  no 
very  great  commendation.     It  is  better  for  a  wo- 


TO    YOUNG    WOMEN.  3/ 

man  never  to  dance,  because  she  hath  no  skill 
in  it,  than  to  do  it  too  often,  because  she  doth  it 
well.  The  easiest,  as  well  as  the  safest  method 
of  doingthis,  is  in  private  companies,  amongst  par- 
ticular friends  and  then  carelesly,  like  a  diversion, 
rather  than  with  solemnity,  as  if  it  was  a  busi- 
ness, or  had  any  thing  in  it  to  deserve  a  month's 
preparation  by  serious  conference  with  a  dancing 
master. 

Much  more  might  be  said  on  all  these  heads, 
and  many  more  might  be  added  to  them.  But  I 
must  restrain  my  thoughts,  which  are  full  for  my 
dear  child,  and  would  overflow  into  a  volume 
which  would  not  be  fit  for  a  new-year's  gift.  I 
will  conclude  with  my  warmest  wishes  for  all  that 
is  good  to  you.  That  you  may  live  so  as  to  be 
an  ornament  to  your  family,  and  a  pattern  to 
vour  sex. 


AN    EXTRACT     FROM    DR.    TORDYCE  S     SERMONS. 

TO  YOUNG  WOMEN. 

THAT  admired  maxim  of  heathen  antiquity, 
ct  reverence  thyself,"  seems  to  me  peculiarly  pro- 
per for  a  woman.  She  that  does  not  reverence 
herself  must  not  hope  to  be  respected  by  others. 
I  would  therefore  remind  you  of  your  own  value. 
By  encouraging  you  to  entertain  a  just  esteem  for 
yourselves,  I  would  on  one  hand  guard  you  against 
every  thing  degrading,  and  on  the  other  awaken 
your  ambition  to  act  upon  the  best  standard  of 
your  sex  ;  to  aspire  at  every  amiable,  every  no- 
ble quality  that  is  adapted  to  your  state,  or  that 
can  insure  the  affection  and  preserve  the  impor- 
tance to  which  you  were  born.  Now  this  impor- 
c 


38  TO  YOUNG  WOMEN. 

tancc  is  very  great,  whether  we  consider  you  in 
your  present  single  condition,  or  as  afterwards 
connected  in  wedlock. 

Considering  you  in  your  present  single  condi- 
tion, I  would  begin  where  your  duty  in  society  be- 
gins, by  putting  you  in  mind  how  deeply  your  pa- 
rents are  interested  in  your  behaviour.  For  the 
sake  of  the  argument,  I  suppose  your  parents  to 
be  alive.  Those  that  have  had  the  misfortune  to 
be  early  deprived  of  theirs,  are  commonly  left  to 
the  care  of  some  friend  or  guardian,  who  is  un- 
derstood to  supply  their  place  ;  and  to  such  my. 
remarks  on  this  head  will  not  be  altogether  inap- 
plicable. 

Are  you  who  now  hear  me  blest  with  parents, 
that  even  in  these  times,  and  in  this  metropolis, 
where  all  the  corruption  and  futility  of  the  times 
are  concentred,  discover  a  zeal  for  your  improve- 
ment and  salvation  ?  How  thankful  should  you  be 
for  the  mighty  blessing  !  Would  you  show  that  you 
are  thankful  ?  Do  nothing  to  make  them  unhap- 
py do  all  in  your  power  to  give  them  delight.-— 
Ah,  did  you  but  know  how  much  it  is  in  your 
power  to  give  them  ! — But  who  can  describe  the 
transports  of  a  breast  truly  parental,  on  behold- 
ing a  daughter  shoot  up  like  some  fair  but 
modest  flower,  and  acquire  day  after  day,  fresh, 
beautiful  and  growing  sweetness,  so  as  to  fill  every 
eye  with  pleasure,  and  every  heart  with  admira- 
tion ;  while,  like  that  same  flower,  she  appears 
unconscious  of  her  opening  charms,  and  only  re- 
joices in  the  sun  that  chears,  and  the  hand  that 
shelters  her  ?  In  this  manner  shall  you,  my  lovely 
friend,  repay  most  acceptably  a  part  (you  never 
can  repay  the  whole)  of  that  immense  debt  you 
owe  for  all  the  pains  and  fears  formerly  suffered. 


TO  YOUNG  WOMEN.  59 

aid  for  all  the  unutterable  anxieties  daily  experi- 
enced, on  your  acccount. 

Perhaps  you  are  the  only  daughter,  perhaps  the. 
only  child  of  your  mother,  and  she  a  widow.   All 
her  cares,  all  her  sensations  point  to  you.   Of  the 
tenderness  of  a  much  loved  and  much  lamented 
husband  you  are  the  sole  remaining  pledge.     Oi\ 
you  she  often  fixes  her  earnest  melting  eye  ;  with 
watchful  attention  she  marks  the  progress  of  your 
rising    virtues ;   in    every   softened    feature     she 
fondly  traces   your  father's   sense,   your  father's 
probity.     Something   within    her  whispers,   you 
shall  live  to  be   the  prop  and  comfort  of  her  age, 
as  you  are  now  her  companion  and  her  friend. — 
blessed  Lord,  what  big  emotions  swell  her  labour- 
ing soul  i  but  Jest,  by  venting  them  in  your  com- 
pany she  should  affect  you  too  much,  she  silently 
withdraws  to  pour  them    forth  in  tears  of  rapture; 
a  rapture  only  augmented  by  the  swettl\  sad  re- 
membrance that  mingles  with  it,  while  at  the  same 
time  it   is  exalted    and  consecrated,  doubly  by  ar- 
dent vows  to   heaven  for   your  preservation    and 
prcspenty.     Is    there  a    young  woman   that  can 
think  of  this  with  indifference  i   is  there   a  young 
woman  that  can  reverse  the  description,   suppose 
herself  the  impious  creature    that   could  break  a 
widowed  mother's  heart,  and  support  the  thought? 
When  a  daughter,  it  may  be  a  favourite  daugh- 
ter, turns  out  unruly,  foolish,  wanton  ;  when  she 
disobeys  her  parents,  disgraces  her  education,  dis- 
honors her    sex,  disappoints  the   hopes   she  had 
raised  ;    when  she  throws  herself  away  on  a  man 
unworthy  of  her,  or  unqualified  to  make  her  hap- 
py ,*  what  her  parents  in  any  of  these  cases  must 
necessarily  suffer,  we  may  conjecture,  they  alone 
can  feel. 


<     40     ) 
A  FATHER'S  LEGACY 

TO    HIS 

DAUGHTERS. 

r 

By  Dr.  Gregory. 

ONE  of  the  chief  beauties  in  a  female  charac- 
ter is  that  modest  reserve,  that  retiring  delicacy 
which  avoids  the  public  eye,  and  is  disconcerted 
even  at  the  gaze  of  admiration.  I  do  not  wish 
you  to  be  insensible  to  applause  ;  if  you  were, 
you  must  become,  if  not  worse,  at  least,  less  amia- 
ble women.  Bat  you  may  be  dazzled  by  that  ad- 
miration, which  yet  rejoices  your  hearts. 

When  a  girl  ceases  to  blush,  she  has  lost  the 
most  powerful  charm  of  beauty.  That  extreme 
sensibility  which  it  indicates,  may  be  a  weakness 
and  incumbrance  to  our  sex,  as  I  have  too  often 
felt  ;  but  in  yours  it  is  peculiarly  engaging.  Pe- 
dants, who  think  themselves  philosophers,  ask 
why  a  woman  should  blush  when  she  is  conscious 
of  no  crime  ?  it  is  a  sufficient  answer,  that  nature 
has  made  you  to  blush  when  you  are  guilty  of  no 
fault,  and  has  forced  us  to  love  you  because  you 
do  so.  Blushing  is  so  far  from  being  a  necessary 
attendant  on  guilt,  that  it  is  the  usual  companion 
of  innocence. 

This  modestywhich  I  think  so  essential  in  your 
sex,  will  dispose  you  to  be  rather  silent  in  compa- 
ny, especially  in  a  large  one.  People  of  sense  and 
discernment  will  never  mistake  such  silence  for 
dulness.  One  may  take  a  share  in  conversation 
without  uttering  a  syllable.     The  expression  in 


a  father's  legacy.  41 

the  countenance  shews  it,  and  this  never  escapes 
an  observing  eye. 

I  should  be  glad  that  you  had  an  easy  dignity 
in  your  behaviour  at  public  places,  but  not  that 
confident  ease,  that  unabashed  countenance,  which 
seems  to  set  the  company  at  defiance.  If,  while 
a  gentleman  is  speaking  to  you,  one  of  superior 
rank  addresses  you,  do  not  let  your  eager  atten- 
tion and  visible  preference,  betray  the  flutter  of 
your  heart.  Let  pride  on  this  occasion  preserve 
you  from  that  meanness  into  which  your  vanity 
would  sink  you.  Consider  that  you  expose  your- 
self to  the  ridicule  of  the  company,  and  affront 
one  gentleman  only  to  swell  the  triumph  of  ano- 
ther, who  perhaps  thinks  he  does  you  honour  in 
speaking  to  you. 

Converse  with  men  even  of  the  first  rank,  with 
that  dignified  modesty,  which  may  prevent  the 
approach  of  the  most  distant  familiarity,  and  con- 
sequently prevent  them  from  feeling  themselves 
your  superiors. 

Wit  is  the  most  dangerous  talent  you  can  pos- 
sess. It  must  be  guarded  with  discretion  and 
good  nature,  otherwise  it  will  create  you  ma- 
ny enemies.  Wit  is  perfectly  consistent  with  soft- 
ness and  delicacy,  yet  they  are  seldom  found 
united.  Wit  is  so  flattering  to  vanity,  that  they 
who  possess  it  become  intoxicated  and  lose  all 
self  command. 

Humour  is  a  different  quality.  It  will  make 
your  company  much  solicited  ;  but  be  cautious 
how  you  indulge  it.  It  is  often  a  great  enemy  to 
delicacy,  and  a  still  greater  one  to  dignity  of  cha- 
racter. Sometimes  it  may  gain  you  applause  but 
will  never  procure  you  respect. 

Be  ever  cautious  in  displaying  your  good  sense. 
It  will  be  thought  you  assume  a  superiority  over 


42  a    FATHER'S    LEGACY' 

the  rest  of  the  company.  But  if  you  happen  to 
have  any  learning,  keep  it  a  profound  secret,  es- 
pecially from  the  men,  who  generall)  look  with  a 
jealous  and  a  malignant  eye  on  a  woman  of  great 
parts  and  cultivated  understanding. 

A  man  of  real  genius  and  candour  is  far  supe- 
rior to  this  meanness  ;  but  such  a  one  will  seldom 
fall  in  your  way ;  and  if  by  accident  he  should, 
do  not  be  anxious  to  show  the  full  extent  of  your 
knowledge.  If  he  has  any  opportunity  of  seeing 
you,  he  will  soon  discover  it  himself  ;  and  if  you 
pave  any  advantages  of  person  or  manner,  and 
keep  your  own  secret,  he  will  probably  give  you 
credit  for  more  than  you  possess.  The  great  art 
in  conversation,  consists  in  making  the  company 
pleased  with  themselves*  You  will  more  readily 
hear  than  talk  yourselves  into  their  good  graces. 

Beware  of  detraction,  especially  where  your 
own  sex  is  concerned.  You  are  generally  accu- 
sed of  being  particularly  addicted  to  this  vice. — 
I  think  unjustly.  Men  are  full  as  guilty  of  it, 
when  their  interests  interfere.  As  your  interests 
more  frequently  clash,  and  as  your  feelings  are 
quicker  than  ours,  your  temptations  to  it  are  more 
frequent.  For  this  reason  be  particularly  tender 
of  the  reputation  of  your  own  sex,  especially 
when  they  happen  to  rival  you  in  our  regards. — 
We  look  on  this  as  the  strongest  proof  of  dignity 
and  true  greatness  of  mind. 

Shew  a  compassionate  sympathy  to  unfortunate 
women,  especially  to  those  who  are  rendered  so 
by  the  villainy  of  men.  Indulge  a  secret  plea- 
sure,  I  may  say  pride,  in  being  the  friends  and 
refuge  of  the  unhappy,  but  without  the  vanity  of 
shewing  it. 

Consider  every  species  of  indelicacy  in  conver- 
sation as  shameful  in  itself,  and  as  highly  disgust- 


43 

:ng  ts  us.  As  double  entendre  is  of  this  sort.— - 
The  dissoluteness  of  men's  education  allows  them 
to  be  diverted  with  a  kind  of  wit,  which  yet  they 
have  delicacy  enough  to  be  shocked  at  when  it 
comes  from  your  mouths  ;  or  even  when  you  hear 
it  without  pain  and  contempt.  Virgin  purity  is 
of  that  delicate  nature  that  it  cannot  hear  certain 
things  without  contamination.  It  is  always  in 
your  power  to  avoid  these.  No  man,  but  a  brute 
or  a  fool,  will  insult  a  woman  with  conversation 
which  he  sees  gives  her  pain;  nor  will  he  dare  to 
doit,  if  she  resent  the  injury  with  a  becoming 
spirit.  There  is  a  dignity  in  conscious  virtue, 
which  is  able  to  awe  the  most  shamelesss  and 
abandoned  of  men. 

You  will  be  reproached  perhaps  with  prudery. 
Bv  prudery  is  usually  meant  an  affectation  of  de- 
licacy. Now  I  do  not  wish  you  to  affect  delica- 
cv  :  I  wish  you  to  possess  it.  At  any  rate,  it'is 
better  to  run  the  risk  of  being  thought  ridiculous 
than  disgusting. 

*  #  *         #        ■    #         *  #  4 

*  #  #         *  *         *  #  # 

*  #  *         #  #         %  #  * 

*  #  #         #  *         #  #  * 
Every  man  who  remembers  a  few  years  back,  is 

sensible  of  a  very  striking  change  in  the  attention 
and  respect  formerly  paid  by  the  gentlemen  to  the 
ladies.  Their  drawing  rooms  are  now  deserted, 
and  after  dinner  and  supper,  the  gentlemen  are 
impatient  till  they  retire.  How  they  came  to  lose 
this  respect,  which  nature  and  politeness  so  well 
entitled  them  to,  I  shall  not  here  particularly  en- 
quire. The  revolutions  of  nature  in  any  coun- 
try, depend  on  causes  very  various  and  compli- 
cated. I  shall  only  observe,  that  the  behaviour 
of  the  ladies  in  the  last  age  was  very  reserved  and 


4&  A  father's   legacy1. 

stately.  It  would  now  be  reckoned  ridiculously 
stiff  and  formal.  Whatever  it  was,  it  had  certain- 
ly the  effect  of  making  them  more  respected. 

A  fine  woman,  like  other  fine  things  in  nature, 
has  her  proper  points  of  view,  from  which  she 
may  be  seen  to  most  advantage. 

To  fix  thfe  point  requires  great  judgement,  and 
an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  human  heart.  By 
the  present  mode  of  female  manners,  the  ladies 
seem  to  expect  that  they  shall  regain  their  ascen- 
dancy over  us  by  the  fullest  display  of  their  per- 
sonal charms,  by  being  always  in  our  eye  at  pub- 
lic places,  by  conversing  with  us  with  the  same 
unreserved  freedom  we  do  with  one  another  ;  In 
short,  by  resembling  us  as  nearly  as  they  possibly 
can.  But  a  little  time  and  experience  will  shew 
the  folly  of  their  expectation  and  conduct. 

The  power  of  a  fine  woman  over  the  hearts  of 
men  of  the  finest  parts,  is  even  beyond  what  she 
conceives.  They  are  sensible  of  the  pleasing  il- 
lusion, but  they  cannot,  nor  do  they  wish  to  dis- 
solve it.  But  if  she  is  determined  to  dispel  the 
charm,  it  certainly  is  in  her  power.  She  may 
soon  reduce  the  angel  to  a  very  ordinary  girl. 

There  is  a  native  dignity  and  ingenuous  modesty 
to  be  expected  in  your  sex,  which  is  your  natural 
protection  from  the  familiarities  of  men  and  which 
you  should  feel  previous  to  the  reflection,  that  it 
is  your  interest  to  keep  yourselves  sacred  from  all 
personal  freedom.  The  many  nameless  charms 
and  endearments  of  beauty  should  be  reserved  to 
bless  the  happy  man  to  whom  you  give  your  hearts. 
The  sentiment,  that  a  woman  may  allow  all  inno- 
cent freedoms,  provided  her  virtue  is  secure,  is 
both  grossly  indelicate  and  dangerous,  and  has 
proved  fatal  to  many  of  your  sex. 


PASSION  FOR  GAMING  IN  LADIES.  45 

Let  me  now  recommend  to  your  attention,  that 
elegance,  which  is  not  so  much  a  quality  of  itself, 
as  the  high  polish  of  every  other.  It  is  what  dif- 
fuses an  ineffable  grace  over  every  look,  every 
motion,  every  sentence  you  utter.  It  gives  that 
charm  to  beauty,  without  which  it  generally  fails 
to  please.  It  is  partly  a  personal  quality,  in  which 
respect  it  is  the  gift  of  nature :  but  I  speak  of  it 
principally  as  a  quality  of  the  mind.  In  a  word, 
it  is  the  perfection  of  taste  in  life  and  manners  ; 
every  virtue,  and  every  excellence,  in  their  most 
graceful  and  proper  forms. 

You  may  perhaps  think  I  want  to  throw  every 
spark  of  nature  out  of  your  composition,  and  to 
make  you  entirely  artificial.  Far  from  it,  I  wish 
you  to  possess  the  most  perfect  simplicity  of  heart 
and  manners.  I  think  you  may  possess  dignity 
without  pride,  affability  without  meanness,  and 
simple  elegance  without  affectation.  Milton  had 
my  idea,  when  he  says  of  Eve, 

Grace  was  in  all  her  eteps,  heav'n  in  her  eye  : 
In  every  gesture  dignity  and  love. 


THE  PASSION  FOR  GAMING  IN  LADIES, 

Ridiculed  in  a  Letter  from  a  Chinese  Philosopher 
to  his  friend  in  the  East. 


BY  GOLDSMITH. 


THE  ladies  here  are  by  no  means  such  ardent 
gamesters  as  the  women  of  Asia.  In  this  respect 
I  must  do  the  English  justice  ;  for  I  love  to  praise 
where  applause  is  justly  merited.  Nothing  is 
more  common  in  China,  than  to  sec  two  women 


46  PASSION  FOR  GAMING  IN  LADIES. 

of  fashion  continue  gaming  till  one  has  won  .alt* 
the  ether's  clothes,  and  stript  her  quite  naked ; 
the  winner  thus  marching  off  in  a  double  suit  of 
finery,"'  and  the  loser  shrinking  behind  in  the  pri- 
mitive simplicity  of  nature. 

No  doubt  you  remember  when  Slicing,  our 
maiden  aunt,  played  with  a  sharper.  First  her 
money  went;  then  her  trinkets  were  produced  ; 
her  clothes  followed,  piece  by  piece,  soon  after  ; 
when  she  had  thus  played  herself  quite  naked, 
being  a  woman  of  spirit,  and  willing  to  pursue 
her  ozvn,  she  staked  her  teeth ;  fortune  was 
against  her  even  here,  and  her  teeth  followed  her 
clothes;  at  last  she  played  for  her  left  eye,  and, 
oh  !  hard  fate,  this  too  she  lost ;  however,  she  had 
the  consolation  of  biting  the  sharper,  for  he  never 
perceived  that  it  was  made  of  glass  till  it  became 
his  own. 

How  happy,  my  friend,  are  the  English  ladies, 
who  never  rise  to  such  an  inordinan.ee  of  passion  ! 
Though  the  sex  here  are  naturally  fond  of  games 
of  chance,  and  are  taught  to  manage  games  of 
skill  from  their  infancy,  yet  they  never  pursue  ill 
fortune  with  such  amazing  intrepidity.  Indeed  I 
may  entirely  acquit  them  of  ever  playing — I  mean 
of  playing  for  their  eyes  or  their  teeth. 

It  is  true  they  often  stake  their  fortune,  their 
beauty,  health  and  reputations  at  a  gaming-table. 
It  even  sometimes  happens,  that  they  play  their 
husbands  into  a  jail;  yet  still  they  preserve  a  de- 
corum unknown  to  our  wives  and  daughters  of 
China.  I  have  been  present  at  a  rout  in  this 
country,  where  a  woman  of  fashion,  after  losing 
her  money,  has  sat  writhing  in  all  the  agonies  oi 
bad  luck  ;  and  yet,  after  all,  never  once  attempted 
to  strip  a  single  petticoat,  or  cover  the  board,  as 
her  last  stake,  with  her  head-clothes. 


PASSION  FOR   GAMING  IN  LADIES.  47 

However,  though  I  praise  their  moderation  at 
play,  I  must  not  conceal  their  assiduity.  In  Chi- 
na, our  women,  except  upon  some  great  days,  are 
never  permitted  to  finger  a  dice-box ;  but  here, 
every  day  seems  to  be  a  festival ;  and  night  itself, 
which  gives  others  rest,  only  serves  to  increase 
the  female  gamester's  industry.  I  have  been  told 
of  an  old  lady  in  the  country,  who  being  given 
over  by  the  physicians,  played  with  the  curate  of 
her  parish  to  pass  the  time  away  :  having  won  all 
his  money,  she  next  proposed  playing  for  her  fu- 
neral charges;  the  proposal  was  accepted;  but 
unfortunately,  the  lady  expired  just  as  she  had 
taken  in  her  game. 

There  are  some  passions,  which,  though  differ- 
ently pursued,  are  attended  with  equal  conse- 
quences in  every  country:  here  they  game  with 
more  perseverance,  there  with  greater  fury;  here 
they  strip  their  families,  there  they  strip  themselves 
naked.  A  lady  in  China,  who  indulges  a  passion 
for  gaming,  often  becomes  a  drunkard ;  and  by 
flourishing  a  dice-box  in  one  hand,  she  generally 
comes  to  brandish  a  dram  cup  in  the  other.  Far 
be  it  from  me  to  say  there  are  any  who  drink 
drams  in  England  ;  but  it  is  natural  to  suppose, 
that  when  a  lady  has  lost  every  thing  but  her  ho- 
n©ur,  she  will  be  apt  to  toss  that  into  the  bargain  ; 
and,  grown  insensible  to  nicer  feelings,  behave 
like  the  Spaniard,  who,  when  all  his  money  was 
gone,  endeavoured  to  borrow  more,  by  offering 
to  pawn  his  whiskers. 


LETTER 

FROM  MUSTAPHA  RUB-A-DUB  KELI  KHAK, 

To  Asem  Hacchem,  principal  slave-driver  to  his 
highness  the  bashaw  of  Tripoli* 


[The  works  of  education  in  common  use,  are  made 
up  of  selections  from  trans-atlantic  writers.  Young 
persons  being  accustomed  to  regard  English  litera- 
ture as  exclusively  deserving  their  applause  and  imi- 
tation, acquire  a  disrelish  and  disrespect  for  the  pro- 
ductions of  our  own  country.  This  disrespect  re- 
sults so  much  from  early  prejudice,  that  elementary 
compilers  should  exert  themselves  to  vindicate  their 
national  character.  We  are  conscious  that  flowers  of 
genius  have  been  born  (but  "  born  to  blush  unseen") 
in  the  American  republic,  which  needed  only  the  fos- 
tering Meesenas',  to  display  their  beauties,  and  force 
them  into  public  view.  Jt  is  not  enough  that  men 
write  ;  excellence,  in  any  shape,  must  be  thrust  into 
immortality,  or  that  excellence  is  forgotten.  We 
acknowledge  that  the  distinguished  authors  from 
whom  we  select  the  following,  cannot  complain  of 
popular  neglect.  The  satires  of  the  Cockloft 
Family  have  circulated  every  where,  and  atone 
time  the  little  volumes  of  Salmagundi  were  thought 
an  indispensable  part  of  the  tea-table  furniture  of 
every  fashionable  house  in  America.  But  this  kind 
of  celebrity  is  most  perishable.  The  works  of 
Launcelot  LangstafT,  and  his  noble  brothers,  have 
been  too  much  regarded  as  mere  amusing  trifles, 
while  they  are  adorned  by  all  the  graces  of  style 
and  sentiment.  The  editor  of  the  Lady's  Precep- 
tor wishes  to  convince  youth,  that  American  pro- 
ductions exist,  which  they  may  admire  and  imitate. 
He  wishes  also  to  adduce  the  works  of  Langstafp 


mustapha's  letter.  49 

and  Co.  as  choice  specimens  of  national  literature. 
He  is  satisfied,  that  females  will  not  be  displeased 
with  the  selection,  and  confess  that  Salmagundi 
shines  not  only  on  the  toilet  and  the  tea-table, 
but  that  its  lustre  is  bright  amidst  the  surrounding 
glare  of  British  erudition.] 

THOUGH  I  am  often  disgusted,  my  good 
Asem,  with  the  vices  and  absurdities  of  the  men 
of  this  country  :  yet  the  women  afford  me  a  world 
of  amusement.  Their  lively  prattle  is  as  divert- 
ing as  the  chattering  of  the  red-tailed  parrot :  nor 
can  the  green-headed  monkey  of  Timandi,  equal 
them  in  whim  and  playfulness.  But,  notwith- 
standing these  valuable  qualifications,  I  am  sorry 
to  observe  they  are  not  treated  with  half  the  atten- 
tion bestowed  on  the  before  mentioned  animals. 
These  infidels  put  their  parrots  in  cages,  and  chain 
their  monkies ;  but  their  women,  instead  of  be- 
ing carefully  shut  up  in  harams  and  seraglios,  are 
abandoned  to  the  direction  of  their  own  reason, 
and  suffered  to  run  about  in  perfect  freedom,  like 
other  domestic  animals  :  this  comes,  Asem,  of 
treating  their  women  as  rational  beings,  and  al- 
lewingthem  souls.  The  consequence  of  this  pi- 
teous neglect  may  easily  be  imagined — they  have 
degenerated  into  all  their  native  wildness,  are  sel- 
dom to  be  caught  at  home,  and  at  an  early  age  take 
to  the  streets  and  highways,  where  they  rove  about 
in  droves,  giving  almost  as  much  annoyance  to 
the  peaceable  people,  as  the  troops  of  wild  dogs 
that  infest  our  great  cities,  or  the  flights  of  locusts, 
that  sometimes  spread  famine  and  desolation  over 
whole  regions  of  fertility. 

This  propensity  to  relapse  into  pristine  wildness, 
convinces  me  of  the  untameable  disposition  of  the 
sex,  who  may  indeed  be  partially  domesticated  bv 

E 


a  long  course  of  refinement  and  restraint,  but  the 
moment  they  are  restored  to  personal  freedom,  be- 
come wild  as  the  young  partridge  of  this  country, 
which,  though  scarcely  half  hatched,  will  take  to 
the  fields  and  run  about  with  the  shell  upon  its 
back. 

Notwithstanding  their  wildness,  however,  they 
are  remarkably  easy  of  access,  and  suffer  them- 
selves to  be  approached,  at  certain  hours  of  the 
day,  without  any  symptoms  of  apprehension  ;  and 
I  have  even  happily  succeeded  in  detecting  them 
at  their  domestic  occupations.  One  of  the  most 
important  of  these  consists  in  thumping  vehe- 
mently on  a  kind  of  musical  instrument,  and  pro- 
ducing a  confused,  hideous,  and  indefinable  up- 
roar, which  they  call  the  description  of  a  battle — 
a  jest,  no  doubt,  for  they  are  wonderfully  facetious 
at  times,  and  make  great  practice  of  passing  jokes 
upon  strangers.  Sometimes  they  employ  them- 
selves in  painting  little  caricatures  and  landscapes, 
wherein  they  will  display  their  singular  drollery 
in  bantering  nature  fairly  out  of  countenance — re- 
presenting her  tricked  out  in  all  the  tawdry  finery 
of  copper  skies,  purple  rivers,  calico  rocks,  red 
grass,  clouds  that  look  like  old  clothes  set  adrift 
b}r  the  tempest,  and  foxy  trees,  whose  melancholy 
foliage,  drooping  and  curling  most  fantastically, 
reminds  me  of  an  undressed  periwig  that  I  have 
now  and  then  seen  hang  on  a  stick  in  a  barber's 
window.  At  other  times  they  employ  themselves 
in  acquiring  a  smattering  of  languages  spoken  by 
nations  on  the  other  side  of  the  globe,  as  they  find 
their  own  language  not  sufficiently  copious  to  sup- 
ply their  constant  demands,  and  express  their 
multifarious  ideas.  But  their  most  important  do- 
mestic avocation  is  to  embroider  on  satin  or  mus- 
lin, flowers  of  a  non-descript  kind,  in  which  the 


51 


great  art  is  to  make  them  as  unlike  nature  as  pos- 
sible— or  to  fasten  little  bits  of  silver,  gold,  tinsel 
and  glass,  on  long  strips  of  muslin,  which  they 
drag  after  them  with  much  dignity  whenever  they 
go  abroad — a  line  lady,  like  a  bird  of  paradise, 
being  estimated  by  the  length  of  her  tail. 

But  do  not,  my  friend,  fall  into  the  enormous 
error  of  supposing,  that  the  exercise  of  these  arU 
is  attended  with  any  useful  or  profitable  result — 
believe  me,  thou  couldst  not  indulge  an  idea  more 
unjust  and  injurious;  for  it  appears  to  be  an  esta- 
blished maxim  among  the  women  of  this  coun- 
try that  a  lady  loses  her  dignity  when  she  conde- 
scends to  be  useful ;  and  forfeits  ail  rank  in  society 
the  moment  she  can  be  convicted  of  earning  a 
farthing.  Their  labour*,  therefore,  are  directed 
not  towards  supplying  their  household,  but  in 
decking  their  persons,  and — generous  souls  ! — 
they  deck  their  persons,  not  so  much  to  please 
themselves,  as  to  gratify  others,  particularly  stran- 
gers. I  am  confident  thou  wilt  stare  at  this,  my 
good  Asem,  accustomed  as  thou  art  to  our  eastern 
females,  who  shrink  in  blushing  timidity  even 
from  the  glances  of  a  lover,  and  are  so  chary  of 
their  favours  that  they  even  seem  fearful  of  lavish- 
ing their  smiles  too  profusedly  on  their  husbands. 
Here,  on  the  contrary,  the  stranger  has  the  first 
place  in  female  regard,  and  so  far  do  they  carry 
their  hospitality,  that  I  have  seen  a  fine  lady  slight 
a  dozen  tried  friends  and  real  admirers,  who  lived 
in  her  smiles  and  made  her  happiness  their  study, 
merely  to  allure  the  vague  and  wandering  glances 
of  a  stranger  who  viewed  her  person  with  indiffer- 
ence and  treated  her  advances  with  contempt.  By 
the  whiskers  of  our  sablime  bashaw,  but  this  is 
highly  flattering  to  a  foreigner!  and  thou  rnayest 
judge  how  particularly  pleasing  to  one  who  is,  like 


myself,  so  ardent  an  admirer  of  the  sex.  Far  be 
it  from  me  to  condemn  this  extraordinary  mani- 
festation of  good  will — let  their  own  countrymen 
look  to  that. 

Be,not  alarmed,  I  conjure  thee,  my  dear  Asem, 
lest  I  should  he  tempted  by  the  beautiful  barba- 
rians to  break  the  faith  I  owe  to  the  three-and- 
twentv  wives  from  whom  my  unhappy  destiny  has 
perhaps  severed  me  for  ever — no  Asem  ;  neither, 
rime  nor  the  bitter  succession  of  misfortunes  that 
pursues  me,  can  shake  from  my  heart  the  memory 
of  former  attachments.  I  listen  with  tranquil 
heart  so  the  strumming  and  prattling  of  these 
fair  syrens — their  whimsical  paintings  touch  not 
the  tender  chord  of  my  affections  ;  and  I  would 
still  defy  their  fascinations,  though  they  trailed 
after  them  trains  as  long  as  the  gorgeous  trap- 
pings which  are  dragged  at  the  heels  of  the  holy 
camel  of  Mecca;  or  as  the  tail  of  the  great  beast 
in  our  prophet's  vision,  which  measured  three 
hundred  and  forty-nine  leagues,  two  miles,  three 
furlongs,  and  a  hand's  breadth  in  longitude. 

The  dress  of  these  women  is,  if  possible,  more 
eccentric  and  whimsical  than  their  deportment, 
and  they  take  an  inordinate  pride  in  certain  orna- 
ments, which  are  probably  derived  from  their  sa- 
vage progenitors.  A  woman  of  this  country, 
dressed  out  for  an  exhibition,  is  loaded  with  as  ma- 
ny ornaments  as  a  Circassian  slave  when  brought 
out  for  sale.  Their  heads  are  tricked  out  with 
little  bits  of  horn  or  shell,  cut  into  fantastic  shapes, 
and  they  seem  to  emulate  each  other  in  the  num- 
ber of  these  singular  baubles — like  the  women  we 
have  seen  in  our  journeys  to  Aleppo,  who  cover 
their  heads  with  the  entire  shell  of  a  tortoise,  and 
thus  equipped,  are  the  envycf  all  their  less  for- 
tunate  acquaintenance.    They  also  decorate  their 


necks  and  ears  with  coral,  gold  chains,  and  glass 
beads,  and  load  their  fingers  with  a  variety  of 
rings;  though,  I  must  confess,  I  have  never  per- 
ceived that  they  wear  any  in  their  noses — as  has 
been  affirmed  by  many  travellers.  We  have  heard 
much  of  their  painting  themselves  most  hideously, 
and  making  use  of  bear's  grease  in  great  profu- 
sion ;  but  this,  I  solemnly  assure  thee,  is  a  misre- 
presentation ;  civilization,  no  doubt,  having  gra- 
dually extirpated  these  nauseous  practices.  It  is 
true,  I  have  seen  too  or  three  of  these  females, 
who  had  disguised  their  features  with  paint;  but 
then  it  was  merely  to  give  a  tinge  of  red  to  their 
cheeks,  and  did  not  look  very  frightful — and  as  to 
ointment,  they  rarely  use  any  now,  except  occa- 
sionally a  little  Grecian  oil  for  their  hair,  which 
gives  it  a  glossy,  greasy,  and  (as  they  think)  very 
comely  appearance.  The  last  mentioned  class  oi 
females,  I  take  for  granted,  have  been  but  late- 
ly caught,  and  still  retain  strong  traits  of  their 
original  savage  propensities* 

The  most  flagrant  and  inexcusable  fault,  how 
ever,  which  I  find  in  these  lovely  savages,  is  the 
shameless  and  abandoned  exposure  of  their  per- 
sons. Wilt  thou  not  suspect  me  of  exaggeration 
when  I  affirm — wilt  thou  not  blush  for  them,  most 
discreet  musselman,  when  I  declare  to  thee,  that 
they  are  so  lost  to  all  sense  of  modesty  as  to  ex- 
pose the  whole  of  their  faces  from  the  forehead 
to  the  chin,  and  that  they  even  go  abroad  with 
their  hands  uncovered  ! — Monstrous  indelicacy  ! 

But  what  I  am  going  to  disclose,  will  doubtless 
appear  to  thee  still  more  incredib1e.  Though  I 
cannot  forbear  paying  a  tribute  of  admiration  ia 
the  beautiful  faces  of  these  fair  infidels,  yet  I  mus. 
give  it  as  my  firm  opinion  that  their  persons  arc 
preposterously    unseemly.     In    vain  did  I  looi" 


o4 

around  me  on  my  first  landing,  for  those  divine 
forms  of  redundant  proportions  which  answer  to 
the  true  standard  of  eastern  beauty — not  a  single 
fat  fair  one  could  I  behold  among  the  multitudes 
that  thronged  the  streets  ;  the  females  that  passed 
in  review  before  me,  tripping  sportively  along,  re- 
sembled a  procession  of  shadows,  returning  to 
their  graves  at  the  crowing  of  the  cock. 

This  meagerness  I 'at  first  ascribed  to  their  ex- 
cessive volubility ;  for  I  have  somewhere  seen  it 
advanced  by  a  learned  doctor,  that  the  sex  were 
endowed  with  a  peculiar  activity  of  tongue,  in 
order  that  they  might  practise  talking  as  a  health- 
ful exercise,  necessary  to  their  confined  and  seden- 
tary mode  cf  life.  This  exercise,  it  was  natural 
to  suppose,  would  be  carried  to  great  excess  in  a 
logocracy.  "  Too  true,"  thought  I,  u  they  have 
converted 'what  was  undoubtedly  meant  as  a  be- 
neficent gift,  into  a  noxious  habit  that  steals  the 
flesh  from  their  bones  and  the  roses  from  their 
cheeks ;  they  absolutely  talk  themselves  thin  !" 
Judge  then  of  my  surprise  when  I  was  as- 
sured not  long  since,  that  this  meagerness  was 
considered  the  perfection  of  personal  beauty, 
and  that  many  a  lady  starved  herself  with  all  the 
obstinate  perseverance  of  a  pious  dervise — into 
a  fine  figure!  "nay  more,"  said  my  informer, 
"  they  will  often  sacrifice  their  healths  in  this 
eager  pursuit  of  skeleton  beauty,  and  drink  vine- 
gar, eat  pickles,  and  smoke  tobacco  to  keep  them- 
selves within  the  scanty  outlines  of  the  fashion." 
Faugh  !  Allah  preserve  me  from  such  beauties, 
who  contaminate  their  pure  blood  with  noxious  re- 
cipes :  who  impiously  sacrifice  the  best  gift  of 
heaven,  to  a  preposterous  and  mistaken  vanity. 
Ere  long  I  shall  not  be  surprised  to  see  them  scar- 
ring their  faces  like  the  negroes  of  Congo,  flatten- 
ing their  noses  in  imitation  of  the  Hottentots,  or 


siustapha's    letter.  55 

like  the  barbarians  of  Ab-al  Timar,  distorting 
their  lips  and  ears  out  of  all  natural  dimensions. 
Since  I  received  this  information,  I  cannot  con- 
template a  fine  figure,  without  thinking  of  a  vine- 
gar cruet :  nor  look  at  a  dashing  belle  without  fan- 
cying her  a  pot  of  pickled  cucumbers!  What  a 
difference,  my  friend,  between  these  shades,  and 
the  plump  beauties  of  Tripoli  ;  what  a  contrast 
between  an  infidel  fair  one  and  my  favourite  wife, 
Fatima,  whom  I  bought  by  the  hundred  weight 
and  had  trundled  home  in  a  wheel-barrow  ! 

But  enough  for  the  present ;  I  am  promised  a 
faithful  account  of  the  arcana  of  a  lady's  toilet — 
a  complete  initiation  into  the  arts,  mysteries,  spells 
and  potions  :  in  short,  the  whole  chemical  process 
by  which  she  reduces  herself  down  to  the  most 
fashionable  standard  of  insignificance  ;  together 
with  specimens  of  the  strait  waistcoats,  the  lacings, 
the  bandages,  and  the  various  ingenious  instru- 
ments with  which  she  puts  nature  to  the  rack,  and 
tortures  herself  into  a  proper  figure  to  be  admi- 
red. 

Farewel,  thou  sweetest  of  slave-drivers  !  the 
echoes  that  repeat  to  a  lover's  ear  the  song  of  his 
mistress,  are  not  more  sooth'ngthan  tidings  from 
those  we  love.  Let  thy  answers  to  my  letters  be 
speedy  ;  and  never.,  I  pray  thee,  for  a  moment 
cease  to  watch  over  the  prosperity  of  my  house, 
and  the  welfare  of  my  beloved  wives.  Let  them 
want  for  nothing,  my  friend;  but  feed  them  plen- 
tifully on  honey,  boiled  rice  and  water  gruel,  so 
that  when  I  return  to  the  blessed  land  of  my  fa- 
thers (if  that  can  ever  be  !)  I  may  find  them  im- 
proved in  size  and  loveliness,  and  sleek  as  the 
graceful  elephants  that  rage  the  green  valley  of 
Abimar. 

Ever  thine, 

MUSTAPHA. 


(56) 

x.edy'a-rd's  character  of  women. 


aLkdyard,  the  celebrated  traveller,  who  is  quoted  in 
the  ensuing  extract  from  one  of  the  essays  of  Sedley, 
an  occasional  correspondent  with  the  Port  Folio, 
was  a  native  of  Connecticut.  At  the  early  age  of 
eighteen,  'with  no  other  advantages  than  those 
which  a  grammar  school  had  afforded,  his  ardent 
curiosity  and  enterprizing  genius  were  displayed. 
Alone  in  a  canoe,  the  work-of  his  own  hands,  and 
with  provisions  for  which  he  was  indebted  to  the 
kindness  of  his  village  friends,  he  performed  his  first 
voyage,  by  descending  the  Connecticut  river  from 
Dartmouth  to  Hartford,  without  anyprevious  know- 
ledge of  its  navigation.  In  1771,  he  sailed  to  Lon- 
don as  a  common  sailor,  and  accompanied  captain 
Cook,  with  whom  he  was  a  favorite,  in  his  third 
voyage  of  discovery.  A  narrative  of  his  various 
adventures,  a  description  of  the  fatigues,  the  peril* 
and  the  disappointments  which  this  indefatigable  tra- 
veller encountered,  though  highly  interesting,  would 
not  be  within  the  scope  of  this  work.  We  shall 
merely  add,  that  he  died  at  Cairo,  in  the  year  1789., 
while  on  a  journey  to  explore  the  interior  parts  of 
Africa. 

In  the  year  1781,  he  published  an  account  of  Cook's 
voyage  ;  and  his  pilgrimage  through  various  regions 
of  the  globe,  may  be  traced  in  his  communications 
to  the  African  Association  at  London.  Jn  one  of 
these,  he  has  borne  a  testimony  in  behalf  of  the 
sex,  which  is  at  once  elegant,  grateful  and  just. 
We  hope  the  manner  in  which  it  is  introduced  to 
our  readers  will  not  be  disapproved  ] 

I  CONFESS  lam  not  one  of  those  who  endea- 
vour to  establish  a  fancied  superiority  by  reviling 
the  female  character,  and  I  think  these  midnight 


CHARACTER    OF    WOMEN.  57 

lucubrations  have  borne  testimony  to  my  sincere 
fondness  and  undissembled  respect  for  its  loveli- 
ness and  dignity.  Milton  has  acknowledged  that 
ulove  is  one  of  the  lowest  ends  of  human  life;"  and 
I  readily  believe  that  this  world,  without  the  sweet 
intercourse  of looks  and  smiles,  would  be  but  a  wide 
waste  indeed.  Why  is  it  that,  in  the  hour  of  dis- 
tress, we  forget  all  our  vaunted  heroism,  and  fly 
to  the  arms  of  female  kindness  for  that  consola- 
tion, which  we  in  vain  seek  in  our  own  reflections? 
And  why  is  it  that  the  tears  of  a  woman  have 
more  effect  in  arousing  our  feelings,  than  the  loud- 
est call  of  the  clarion  ?  It  is  that  all-pervading 
influence,  which  moves  every  passion  of  the  hu- 
man breast :  it  is  that  which  melts  the  most  fierce 
into  docility,  and  inspires  even  cowardice  with 
bravery. 

Spencer,  a  favorite  poet  with  me,  has  a  passage 
on  the  influence  of  women  in  distress,  which  I 
wish  every  one  to  read  and  admire  : 

Nought  is  there  under  Heaven's  hoHownesse 
That  moves  more  dear  compassien  of  the  mind , 
Than  beauty  brought  t'  unworthie  wretchednesse, 
Through  envie's  snares,  or  fortune's  freaks  unkind. 
/,  lately,   whether  through  her  brightness  blynd, 
Or,  thro*  allegiance  and  part  fealty, 
IVhich  I  do  one  z/nto  all  woman  hind, 
Feel  my  heart  prest  with  so  great  agony, 
When  such   I  see,  that  all  for  pity  1   could  dy. 

But  whilst  I  admire,  and  praise,  and  defend,  let 
me  not  be  supposed  to  be  so  blind  as  to  see  all 
their  virtues  and  their  vices,  their  beauties  and 
deformities  in  the  same  partial  light.  No  ; 
the  canvas  so  alluring  to  the  eye  is  yet  tarnished 
by  many  a  stain.  The  sickly  mem  of  affectation, 
the  folly  of  a  weak  mind,  and  the  ungenial  chill 
of  prudery,  the  vice  of  an  impure   mind,   with 


58  CHARACTER    OF    WOMEN. 

many  other  frailties  that  female  jtesh  is  heir  ic, 
must  be  corrected  before  woman  can  be  called 
perfect.  Yet  with  all  these  imperfections,  how 
infinitely  do  they  surpass  us  in  virtue,  friendship, 
constancy,  fortitude,  genuine  good  sense,  and  un- 
affected good  nature  ! 

Let  me  add  a  grateful  testimony  of  older  expe- 
rience, of  which  I  have  been  reminded  by  these 
reflections.  In  the  travels  of  Ledyard,  this  cele- 
brated traveller  says,  he  has  "  always  remarked 
that  women  in  all  countries,  are  civil,  obliging, 
tender  and  humane  ;  that  they  are  ever  inclined 
to  be  gay  and  cheerful,  timorous  and  modest  ; 
and  that  they  do  not  hesitate,  like  men,  to  perform 
a  kind  or  generous  action. 

"  Not  haughty  not  arrogant,  not  supercilious, 
they  are  full  of  courtesy,  and  fond  of  society, 
More  liable  in  general  to  err  than  man,  but  in 
general  also  more  virtuous,  and  performing  more 
good  actions  than  he.  To  a  woman,  whether  ci~ 
viized  or  savage,  I  never  addressed  myself  in 
the  language  of  friendship  and  decency,  without 
receiving  a  friendly  and  decent  answer  ;  with  man 
it  has  oiten  been  otherwise. 

"  In  wandering  over  the  barren  plains  of  inhos- 
pitable Denmark,  through  honest  Sweden  and  fro- 
zen Lapland,  rude  and  churlish  Finland,  unprinci- 
pled Russia,  and  the  wide-spread  regions  of  the 
wandering  Tartars  j  if  hungry,  dry,  cold,  wet,  or 
sick,  the  women  have  ever  been  friendly  to  me, 
and  uniformly  so  ;  and  to  add  to  this  virtue,  so 
worthy  the  appellation  o£  benevolence,  these  actions 
have  been  performed  in  so  free  and  kind  a  man- 
ner, that  if  I  was  thirsty,  I  drank  the  sweetest 
draught,  and  if  hungry,  I  ate  the  coarsest  meal 
with  a  double  relish." 


(     59     ) 

ON    FEMALE  ATTRACTIONS. 

FLAVELLA  has  a  multitude  of  charms.  She 
is  sensible,  affable,  modest  and  good-humoured. 
She  is  tail  without  being  aukward,  and  as  straight 
as  an  arrov.r.  She  has  a  clear  complexion,  lively 
eyes,  pretty  mouth,  and  white  even  teeth  ;  and 
will  answer  the  description  which  any  rhyming 
lover  can  give  of  the  mistress  of  his  affections, 
after  having  ransacked  heaven  and  earth  for  simi- 
lics  ;  and  yet  I  cannot  admire  her.  She  wants,  in 
my  opinion,  tlvAtnarieltJs  something*  or^/ene  scat 
qnoi,  which  is  far  more  attractive  than  beauty. — • 
It  is,  in  short,  a  peculiar  manner  of  saying  the 
most  insignificant  thing:.,  and  doing  the  most  tri- 
fling actions  which  captivates  us,  and  takes  our 
hearts  by  surprize.  Though  I  am  a  strenuous  ad- 
vocate for  a  modest,  decent  and  unaffected  de- 
portment in  the  fair  sex,  I  would  not,  however, 
have  a  fine  woman  altogether  insensible  of  her 
personal  charms,  for  she  would  then  be  as  insipid 
as  Flavilla.  I  would  only  have  her  conscious 
enough,  of  them  to  behave  with  modest  freedom, 
and  to  converse  with  fluency  and  spirit.  When  a 
woman  stalks  majestically  into  a  room,  with  the 
haughty  airs  of  a  first  rate  beauty,  and  expects 
every  one  who  sees  her  to  admire  her,  my  indig- 
nation rises,  and  I  get  away  as  fast  as  I  can,  in  or- 
der to  enjoy  the  conversation  of  an  easy,  good  hu- 
moured creature,  who  is  neither  beautiful,  nor 
conceited  enough  to  be  troublesome,  and  who  is 
as  willing  to  give  pleasure,  as  desirous  to  receive 


60  CHARACTER    OF    TWO    SISTERS, 


TENDERNESS    TO    MOTHERS. 

MARK  !  that  parent  hen,  said  a  father  to  his 
beloved  daughter.  With  what  anxious  care  docs 
she  call  together  her  little  offspring,  and  cover 
them  with  her  expanded  wings.  The  kite  is  ho- 
vering in  the  air,  and,  disappointed  of  his  prey, 
by  the  care  the  hen  takes  of  her  brood,  may  per- 
haps, dart  upon  the  hen  herself,  and  bear  her  off 
in  his  talons. 

Does  not  this  sight  suggest  to  you  the  tender- 
ness and  affection  of  your  mother  ?  her  watchful 
care  protected  you  in  the  helpless  period  of  your 
infancy,  when  she  nourished  you  with  her  milk, 
taught  your  limbs  to  move,  and  your  tongue  to 
lisp  its  unformed  accents.  In  childhood,  she  ha^s 
mourned  over  your  little  griefs,  has  rejoiced  in 
your  innocent  delights,  has  administered  to  you 
the  healing  balm  in  sickness,  and  has  instilled  into 
your  mind  the  love  of  truth,  of  virtue,  and  of 
wisdom.  Oh  !  cherish  every  sentiment  of  re- 
spect to  such  a  mother  :  she  merits  your  warmest 
gratitude,  esteem  and  veneration. 

PERCIVAL. 


CHARACTER    OF    TWO  SISTERS. 

FLIRTILLA  is  a  gay,  lively,  giddy  girl ;  she 
is  what  the  world  calls  handsome;  she  dances  and 
sings  admirably,  has  something  to  say  upon  every 
fashion,  person,  play,  opera,  masquerade,  orpub- 
licexhibition,  and  has  an  easy  flow  of  words,  that 
pass  upon  the  multitude  for  wit.     In  short,  the 


.  ILY  LOVE  AND  IlAllMONY.  61 

whole  end  of  her  existence  seems  to  be  centered 
in  a  love  of  company  and  the  fashion.  No  won- 
der she  is  noticed  only  by  the  less  worthy 
part  of  the  world.  Amelia,  the  lovely  Amelia, 
makes  home  her  greatest  happiness.  Nature  ha-s 
not  been  so  lavish  of  her  charms,  as  to  her  sister, 
but  she  has  a  soft  pleasing  countenance,  that  plain- 
ly indicates  the  goodness  of  her  heart  within. 
Her  person  is  not  striking  at  first,  but  as  it  be- 
comes familiar  to  the  beholder,  is  more  so  than 
that  of  her  sister.  For  her  modest  deportment, 
and  her  sweet  disposition,  will  daily  gain  ground 
on  any  person  who  has  the  happiness  of  convers- 
ing with  her.  She  reads  much,  and  digests  what 
she  reads.  Her  serenity  of  mind  is  not  to  be 
disturbed  by  the  disappointment  of  a  party  of 
pleasure,  nor  her  spirit  agitated  by  the  shape  of  a 
car,  or  the  colour  of  a  ribbon.  She  speaks  but 
little  when  in  company,  but  when  she  does,  every 
one  is  silent,  and  attends  to  her  as  an  oracle,  and 
she  has  one  true  friend  with  whom  she  passes  her 
days  in  tranquility.  The  reader  may  easily  judge 
which  of  these  two  sisters  is  the  most  amiable. 


FAMILY  LOVE  AND  HAR3IONY. 

I  WILL  amuse  you  with  a  little  experiment, 
said  Charles  one  evening  to  Lucy,  Emilia,  and  Ja- 
cobus,and,  rising  from  the  table,  he  took  the  candles 
and  held  them  about  half  an  inch  asunder,  opposite 
to  a  medallion  of  Dr.  Franklin,  about  two  yards 
distant  from  it.  The  motto  round  the  figure — 
"  Unhurt  amidst  the  war  of  elements"  was  but 
just  distinctly  visible  :  when  the  degree  of  light. 
had  been  sufficiently  observed,  he  united  the 
r 


$S  *ENELON  ON  EDUCATION. 

flames  of  the  two  candles,  by  putting  them  close 
together,  and  the  whole  figure  with  the  inscription 
became  instantly  illuminated  in  a  much  stronger 
manner  than  before.  They  were  all  pleased,  and 
struck  with  the  effect,  and  they  desired  Euphroni- 
us,  who  now  entered  the  parlour,  to  explain  to 
them  the  cause  of  it.  He  commended  their  en- 
tertainment, and  informed  them  that  a  greater  de- 
gree of  heat  is  produced  by  the  junction  of  the 
two  flames,  and  consequently  a  farther  attention, 
and  more  copious  emission  of  the  particles  of 
which  light  consists.  But,  my  dear  young  friends, 
continued  he,  attend  to  the  lesson  of  virtue,  as 
well  as  of  science,  which  the  experiment  you  have 
seen  affords.  Nature  has  implanted  in  your 
hearts,  benevolence,  friendship,  gratitude,  human- 
ity and  generosity ;  and  these  social  affections  are 
separately  shining  lights  in  the  world  :  but,  they 
burn  with  peculiar  warmth  and  lustre,  when  more 
concentered  in  the  kindred  charities  of  brother, 
sister,  child,  and  parent;  and  harmony,  peace, 
sympathy  in  joy  and  grief,  mutual  good  offices, 
forgiveness  and  forbearance  are  the  bright  ema- 
nations of  domestic  love.  May  the  radiance  of 
such  virtues  long  illuminate  this  happy  household, 

FERCIVAL. 


FENELON  ON  EDUCATION. 

IF  girls  do  not  apply  early  to  things  of 
acme  solidity,  they  will  have  neither  taste  for 
them,  nor  pleasure  in  them,  afterwards.  A  mo- 
ther should  by  degrees  represent  to  her  daughter 
the  advantage  of  rational  application;  but  she 
should  rather  make  the  acquisition  of  knowledge 


FENELON  ON  EDUCATION.  63 

a  recreation,  than  a  toil,  otherwise  she  will  cause 
the  child  to  be  disgusted  with  all  imprpvemeni. 

Begin  to  teach  children  history,  by  relating  lit- 
tle tales  of  interesting  and  noble  actions,  which 
will  engage  their  attention,  enlarge  their  ideas, 
and  give  them  a  taste  for  virtue  :  this  method 
will  lead  them,  as  they  grow  older,  to  wish  to  ac- 
quire general  knowledge,  and  will  render  them 
pleasing  companions. 

But  endeavour  to  guard  against  presumption, 
and  self-conceit ;  always  praise  them  more  when 
they  doubt  or  ask  for  information,  than  when 
they  seem  certain  of  their  knowledge  :  this  is  the 
best  means  of  infusing  into  them  gently  a  proper 
modesty  of  opinion,  and  of  discouraging  an  argu- 
mentative maimer,  which  is  extremely  disgusting 
in  young  females. 

Let  not  girls  mistake  vivacity  of  imagination 
and  facility  of  speaking  for  wit ;  they  will  other- 
wise interfere  upon  all  occasions,  and  talk  and  de- 
cide upon  subjects  the  least  suited  to  their  capa- 
city. Tell  them,  that  quickness  of  repartee,  and 
a  readiness  of  expressing  themselves  with  ease 
and  grace,  are  not  essential  talents,  because  they 
are  frequently  possessed  by  women  who  are  de- 
ficient in  solidity  of  understanding;  but  imprint 
strongly  on  their  minds,  that  a  discreet  and  regu- 
lar conduct,  and  a  knowledge  when  to  be  silent 
and  when  to  deliver  their  sentiments  with  pro- 
priety, are  essential  qualifications  which  command 
respect  and  conciliate  esteem. 

Parents  frequently  encourage  girls  in  softness 
and  timidity,  bordering  on  weakness,  which  ren- 
der them  incapable  of  being,  firm  and  uniform 
characters.  Th-y  are  perhaps  naturally  fearful, 
and  they  affect  to  be  so  still  more,  and  thus  cus- 
tom confirms  this  failing  :  if  you  shew  contempt 


64  FfeNFXON  ON   EDUCATION. 

for  these  fears  and  affectations,  it  will  be  the  most 
effectual  way  to  correct  them. 

As  an  extreme  love  of  refinement  is  too  apt  to 
influence  the  sex,  represent  to  a  young  lady,  the 
utility  of  an  accommodating  disposition.  Since 
we  must  frequently  associate  with  persons  who 
are  not  very  refined,  and  enter  into  occupations 
not  suitable  to  our  tastes  :  reason,  which  is  true 
good  sense,  points  out  fastidiousness  as  a  weak- 
ness of  character.  A  mind  that  understands  true 
politeness,  and  knows  how  to  descend  to  ordinary 
occupations,  is  infinitely  superior  to  those  exces- 
sively delicate  minds,  that  are  overcome  with  dis- 
gust upon  every  occasion. 

Endeavour  to  persuade  young  ladies  not  to  im- 
agine that  great  beauty  is  the  most  desirable  gift. 
A  beauty  idolizes  her  own  person  more  than  the 
most  passionate  lover.  Inform  them,  that  beauty 
deceives  the  person  who  possesses  it  much  more 
than  those  who  are  its  admirers;  and  lead  them 
to  reflect,  that  a  very  few  years  will  rob  them  of 
all  their  charms. 

Beauty  without  merit  is  very  little  serviceable 
to  a  girl ;  she  can  only  expect  to  draw  in  a  young 
coxcomb  to  marry  her,  with  whom  she  must  be 
wretched.  But  when  modesty  and  virtue  are 
joined  with  beauty,  the  possessor  of  these  qualifi- 
cations may  aspire  to  an  union  with  a  man  of  real 
merit. 

As  there  are  no  regulations  for  dress,  equip- 
ages, or  way  of  living,  there  are  in  effect  none  for 
the  general  situations  in  life.  Most  women  are 
disposed  to  love  an  ostentatious  display,  and  are 
fond  of  leading  the  fashions  :  this  vain  ambition 
frequently  ruins  families  and  the  ruin  of  families 
must  draw  on  the  corruption. of  morals.  On  one 
side,  this  parade  excites  in  persons  of  a  low  con- 


FENELON  ON  EDUCATION.  6p 

dition  the  desire  of  appearing  above  their  situa- 
tion, which  leads  them  to  commit  dishonest  ac- 
tions ;  on  the  other  hand,  it  induces  persons  of 
quality,  who  find  themselves  without  resources, 
to  be  guilty  of  mean  and  scandalous  actions  to 
support  their  expenses ;  by  these  means  are  ex- 
tinguished good  faith,  probity  and  ingeniousness, 
even  among  the  nearest  relations.  Endeavour, 
therefore,  to  convince  young  ladies  how  much 
more  estimable  that  honour  is,  which  is  derived 
from  a  right  conduct,  and  cultivated  understand- 
ing, than  from  any  ostentatious  display. 

Endeavour  to  give  a  young  woman  a  proper 
sense  of  the  part  she  is  to  act  if  she  marries. — 
She  is  to  have  the  care  of  educating  her  children  ; 
of  the  boys  to  a  certain  age,  of  the  girls  till  they 
marry.  She  ought  to  have  a  quick  discernment 
to  find  out  the  natural  genius  and  disposition  of 
each  child,  to  conduct  herself  properly  towards 
them,  to  discover  their  inclinations,  talents  and 
tempers  ;  to  persuade  them  by  good  advice,  and 
to  correct  their  errors.  She  should  carefully  ac- 
quire and  preserve  her  authority,  without  losing 
their  love  and  confidence- 

A  mother  of  a  family  should  have  a  proper 
sense  of  religion,  to  be  able  to  instil  good  princi- 
ples into  her  children.  St.  Paul  assures  women, 
th.it  their  salvation  depends  upon  well  educating 
their  children. 

Many  women  too  much  neglect  economy,  par- 
ticularly those  in  higher  stations  of  life ;  accus- 
tomed to- affluence  and  indolence,  they  disclaim 
this  virtue,  as  involving  them  in  unworthy  occu- 
pations, leach  young  ladies,  that  a  mistress  of  a 
family  should  accustom  herself  to  keep  an  ac- 
count of  her  expenses,  to  know  the  value  oi^  the 


66  HUSH  ON  EDUCATION* 

necessaries  of  life  as  well  as  the  articles  of  dress, 
that  she  may  prevent  waste  and  imposition.  But 
though  she  should  avoid  prodigality,  let  her  not 
run  into  the  opposite  extreme.  Avarice  gains 
little,  and  greatly  dishonours  those  who  are  under 
its  influence.  A  reasonable  woman  only  practises 
frugality  to  avoid  the  shame  and  injustice  attend- 
ing an  expensive  and  ruinous  conduct ;  she  re- 
trenches superfluous  expenses,  that  she  may  have 
it  in  her  power  the  more  liberally  to  perform  acts 
"*f  friendship,  benevolence,  and  charity ." 


"EXTRACT    FROM 


THOUGHTS  UPON  FEMALE  EDUCATION, 

Accommodated  to  the  present  state  of  society,  man- 
ners, and  government,  in  the  United  States  of 
America,  Addressed  to  the  Visitors  of  the 
Toung-  Ladies'  Academy  in  Philadelpiiia,  28th 
July,  1787,  by  Benjamin  Rush,  m.  d. 

THE  branches  of  literature  most  essential  for 
a  young  lady  in  this  country,  appear  to  be, 

1st.  A  knowledge  of  the  English  language* — 
She  should  not  only  read,  but  speak  and  spell  it 
correctly*  And  to  enable  her  to  do  this,  she 
should  be  taught  the  English  grammar,  and  be 
frequently  examined  in  applying  its  rules  in  com- 
?non  conversation* 


RUSH  ON  EDUCATION.  67 

2d.  Pleasure  and  interest  conspire  to  make 
the  writing  of  a  fair  and  legible  hand,  a  necessary 
branch  of  a  lady's  education.  For  this  purpose 
she  should  be  taught  not  only  to  shape  twtry  let- 
ter properly,  but  to  pay  the  strictest  regard  to 
points  and  capitals. 

I  once  heard  of  a  man  who  professed  to  dis- 
cover the  tempers  and  dispositions  of  persons  by 
looking  at  their  hand  writing.  Without  enquir- 
ing into  the  probability  of  this  story ;  I  shall  only 
remark,  that  there  is  one  thing  in  which  all  man- 
kind agree  upon  this  subject,  and  that  is,  in  con- 
siuering  writing  that  is  blotted,  crooked,  or  illegi- 
ble, as  a  mark  of  vulgar  education.  I  know  of 
few  things  more  rude  or  illiberal,  than  to  intrude 
a  letter  upon  a  person  of  rank  or  business,  which 
cannot  be  easily  read.  Peculiar  care  should  be 
taken  to  avoid  every  kind  of  ambiguity  and  affec- 
tation in  writing  names.  I  have  now  a  letter  in 
my  possession  upon  business,  from  a  gentleman 
of  a  liberal  profession  in  a  neighbouring  state, 
which  I  am  unable  to  answer,  because  I  cannot 
discover  the  name  which  is  subscribed  to  it.  For 
obvious  reasons  I  would  recommend  the  writing 
of  the  first,  or  christian  name,  at  full  length, 
where  it  does  not  consist  of  more  than  two  syl- 
lables.— Abbreviations  of  all  kind  in  letter  writ- 
ing, which  always  denote  either  haste  or  earless- 
ness,  should  likewise  be  avoided.  I  have  only  to 
add  under  this  head,  that  the  Italian  and  inverted 
hands  which  are  read  with  difficulty,  are  by  no 
means  accommodated  to  the  active  state  of  busi- 
ness in  America,  or  to  the  simplicity  of  the  citi- 
zens of  a  republic. 

3d.  Some  knowledge  of  figures  and  book- 
keeping is  absolutely  necessary  to  qualify  a  young 
lady  for  the  duties,  which  await  her  in  this  coun- 


63  R&S1I  ON  EDUCATION. 

try.  There  are  certain  occupations  in  which  she- 
may  assist  her  husband  with  this  knowledge  ;  and 
should  she  survive  him,  and  agreeably  to  the  cus- 
tom of  our  country  be  the  executrix  of  his  will, 
3ae  cannot  fail  of  deriving  immense  advantages 
from  it. 

4th.  An  acquaintance  with  geography  and 
some  instruction  with  chronology  will  enable  a 
young  lady  to  read  history,  biography,  and  travels 
with  advantage  ;  and  thereby  qualify  her  not  only 
for  a  general  intercourse  with  the  world,  but  to  be 
an  agreeable  companion  for  a  sensible  man.  To 
these  branches  of  knowledge  may  be  added,  in 
some  instances,  a  general  acquaintance  with  the 
first  principles  of  astronomy,  natural  philosophy 
and  chemistry,  particularly,  with  such  parts  of 
them  as  are  calculated  to  prevent  superstition,  by 
explaining  the  causes,  or  obviating  the  effects  of 
natural  evil,  and  such,  as  are  capable  of  being  ap- 
plied to  domestic,  and  culinary  purposes. 

5th.  Vocal  music  should  never  be  neglected  in 
the  education  of  a  young  lady  in  this  country.— - 
Besides  preparing  her  to  join  in  that  part  of  pub- 
lic worship  which  consists  in  psalmody,  it  will  en- 
able her  to  soothe  the  cares  of  domestic  life.  The 
distress  and  vexation  of  a  husband' — the  noise  of 
a  nursery,  and  even  the  sorrows  that  will  some- 
times intrude  into  her  own  bosom,  may  all  be  re- 
lieved by  a  song,  where  sound  and  sentiment  unite 
to  act  upon  the  mind.  I  hope  it  will  not  be 
thought  foreign  to  this  part  of  our  subject  to  in- 
troduce a  fact  htre  which  has  been  suggested  to 
me  by  my  profession,  and  that  is,  that  the  exer- 
cise of  the  organs  of  the  breast,  by  singing,  con- 
tributes very  much  to  defend  them  from  those  dis- 
eases to  which  our  climate  and  other  causes, 
liave  of  late  exposed  them.    Our  German  fellow- 


RUSH  ON  EDUCATION.  69 

citizens  arc  seldom  afflicted  with  consumptions') 
nor  have  I  ever  known  but  one  instance  of  spitting 
of  blood  among  them.  This,  1  believe,  is  in  part 
occasioned  by  the  strength  which  their  lungs  ac- 
quire, by  exercising  them  frequently  in  vocal 
music,  for  this  constitutes  an  essential  branch  of 
their  education.  The  musk -master  of  our  acade- 
my has  furnished  me  with  an  observation  still 
more  in  favour  of  this  opinion.  He  informed  me 
that  he  had  known  several  instances  of  persons 
who  were  strongly  disposed  to  the  consumption, 
who  were  restored  to  health,  by  the  moderate  ex- 
ercise of  their  lungs  in  singing. 

G.  Dancing  is  by  no  means  an  improper 
branch  of  education  for  an  American  lady.  It 
promotes  health,  and  renders  the  figure  and  mo- 
tions of  the  body  easy  and  agreeable.  I  antici- 
pate the  time  when  the  resources  of  conversation 
shall  be  so  far  multiplied,  that  the  amusement  of 
dancing  shall  be  wholly  confined  to  children.  But 
in  our  present  state  of  society  and  knowledge,  I 
conceive  it  to  be  an  agreeable  substitute  for  the 
ignoble  pleasures  of  drinking  and  gaming,  in  our 
assemblies  of  grown  people. 

7th.  The  attention  of  our  youngdadies  should 
be  directed,  as  soon  as  they  are  prepared  lor  it, 
to  the  reading  of  history — travels — poetry — and 
moral  essays.  These  studies  are  accommodated, 
in  a  peculiar  manner,  to  the  present  state  of  soci- 
ety in  America,  and  when  a  reiish  is  excited  for 
them  in  early  life,  they  subdue  that  passion  for 
reading  novels,  which  so  generally  prevails  among 
the  fair  six.  I  cannot  dismiss  this  species  of  writ- 
ing and  reading  without  observing,  that  the  sub- 
jects of  novels  are  by  no  means  accommodated  to 
our  present  manners.  They  hold  up  life,  it  is  true, 
but  it  is  not  as  yet  life'm  America.  Our  passions 


70  RUSH  ON  EDUCATION. 

have  not  as  yet  "  overstepped  the  modesty  of  na- 
ture," nor  are  they  "  torn  to  tattera,"  to  use  the 
expressions  of  the  poet,  by  extravagant  love,  jea- 
lousy, ambition,  or  revenge.  As  yet  the  intrigues 
of  a  British  novel,  are  as  foreign  to  our  manners* 
as  the  refinements  of  Asiatic  vice.  Let  it  not  be 
said,  that  the  tales  of  distress,  which  fill  modern 
novels,  have  a  tendency  to  soften  the  female  heart 
into  acts  of  humanity.  The  fact  is  the  reverse  of 
this.  The  abortive  sympathy  which  is  excited 
by  the  recital  of  imaginary  distress,  blunts  the 
heart  to  that  which  is  real ;  and,  hence,  we  some- 
times see  instances  of  young  ladies,  who  weep 
away  a  whole  forenoon  over  the  criminal  sorrows 
of  a  fictitious  Charlotte  or  Werter,  turning  with 
disdain  at  three  o'clock  from  the  sight  of  a  beg- 
gar, who  solicits  in  feeble  accents  or  signs,  a 
small  portion  only  of  the  crumbs  which  fall  from 
their  father's  tables. 

8th.  It  will  be  necessary  to  connect  all  these 
branches  of  education  with  regular  instruction  in 
the  christian  religion.  For  this  purpose  the  prin- 
ciples of  the  different  sects  of  christians  should  be 
taught  and  explained,  and  our  pupils  should  ear- 
ly be  furnished  with  some  of  the  most  simple  ar- 
guments in  favour  of  the  truth  of  Christianity.* 
A  portion  of  the  bible  (of  late  improperly  banish- 
ed from  our  schools)  should  be  read  by  them  eve- 
ry day,  and  such  questions  should  be  asked,  after 
reading  it  as  are  calculated  to  imprint  upon  their 
minds  the  interesting  stories  contained  in  it. 

Rosseau  has  asserted  that  the  great  secret  of 
education  consists  in  "  wasting  the  time  of  children 

*  Baron  Mailer's  letters  to  his  daughter  on  the  truths 
of  the  christian  religion,  and  Dr.  Beatie's  "  evidence 
of  the  christian  religion  briefly  and  plainly  stated,"  are 
excellent  little  tracts,and  well  adapted  i'oi'  this  purpose, 


RUSH  ON  EDUCATION.  71 

profitably."  There  is  some  truth  in  this  observa- 
tion. I  believe  that  we  often  impair  their  health, 
and  weaken  their  capacities  by  imposing  studies 
upon  them,  which  are  not  proportioned  to  their 
years.  But  this  objection  does  not  apply  to  reli- 
gious instruction.  There  are  certain  simple  pre- 
positions in  the  christian  religion,  which  are  suit- 
ed in  a  peculiar  manner,  to  the  infant  state  of  rea- 
son and  moral  sensibility.  A  clergyman  of  long 
experience  in  the  instruction  of  youth  informed 
me,  that  he  always  found  children  acquired  reli- 
gious knowledge  more  easily  than  knowledge  up- 
on other  subjects  ;  and  that  young  girls  acquired 
this  kind  of  knowledge  more  readily  than  boys. 
The  female  breast  is  the  natural  soil  of  Christiani- 
ty :  and  while  our  women  are  taught  to  believe 
its  doctrines,  and  obey  its  precepts,  the  wit  of  Vol- 
taire, and  the  style  of  Bolingbroke,  will  never  be 
able  to  destroy  its  influence  upon  our  citizens. 

I  cannot  help  remarking  in  this  place,  that  Chris- 
tianity exerts  the  most  friendly  influence  upon 
science,  as  well  as  upon  the  morals  and  manners 
of  mankind.  Whether  this  be  occasioned  by  the 
unity  of  truth,  and  the  mutual  assistance  which 
truths  upon  different  subjects  afford  each  other, 
or  whether  the  faculties  of  the  mind  be  sharpened 
and  corrected  by  embracing  the  truths  of  revela- 
tion, and  thereby  prepared  to  investigate  and  per- 
ceive the  truths  upon  the  subjects,  I  will  not  de- 
termine, but  I  believe  that  the  greatest  discove- 
ries in  science  have  been  made  by  christian  philo- 
sophers, and  that  there  is  the  most  knowledge  in 
those  countries  where  there  is  the  most  Christiani- 
ty. If  this  remark  be  well  founded,  then  those 
philosophers  who  rejected  Christianity,  and  those 
christians,  whether  parents  or  school-masters, who 
«eglect  the  religious  instruction  of  their  children 


72  RUSH  ON  EDUCATION'. 

and  pupils,   reject  and   neglect  the  most  effectual 
means  of  promoting  knowledge  in  our  country. 

9th.  If  the  measures  that  have  been  recom- 
mended for  inspiring  our  pupils  with  a  sense  of 
religious  and  moral  obligation  be  adopted,  the 
government  of  them  will  be  easy  and  agreeable. 
I  shall  only  remark  under  this  head,  that  strictness 
of  discipline  will  always  render  severity  unneces- 
sarv,  and  that  there  will  be  the  most  instruction 
in  that  school,  where  there  is  the  most  order. 

I  have  said  nothing  in  favour  of  instrumental 
music  as  a  branch  of  female  education,  because 
I  conceive  it  is  by  no  means  accommodated  to 
the  present  state  of  society  and  manners  in  Ame- 
rica. The  price  of  musical  instruments,  and  the 
extravagant  fees  demanded  by  the  teachers  of 
instrumental  music,  form  but  a  small  part  of  my 
objections  to  it. 

To  perform  well,  upon  a  musical  instrument,  re- 
quires much  time  and  long  practice.  From  two 
to  four  hours  in  a  day,  for  three  or  four  years  ap- 
propriated to  music,  are  an  immense  deduction 
from  that  short  period  of  time  which  is  aMowed 
by  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  our  country  for 
the  acquisition  of  the  useful  branches  of  literature 
that  have  been  mentioned.  How  many  useful 
ideas  might  be  picked  up  in  these  hours  from  his- 
tory, philosophy,  poetry,  and  the  numerous  moral 
essays  with  which  our  language  abounds,  and  how 
much  more  would  the  knowledge  acquired  up- 
on these  subjects  add  to  the  consequence  of  a  la- 
dy, with  her  husband  and  with  society,  than  the 
best  performed  pieces  of  music  upon  a  harpsicord 
or  a  guitar!  Of  the  many  ladies  whom  we  have 
known,  who  have  spent  the  most  important  years 
of  their  lives,  in  learning  to  play  upon  instruments 
of  music,  how  few  of  them,  do  we  see   amuse 


RUSH  ON  EDUCATION,  fS 

themselves  or  their  friends  with  them,  after  they 
become  mistresses  of  families  !  their  harpsicords 
serve  only  as  side-boards  for  their  parlours,  and 
prove  by  their  silence,  that  necessity  and  circum- 
stances, will  always  prevail  over  fashion,  and 
false  maxims  of  education. 

Let  it  not  be  supposed  from  these  observations 
that  I  am  insensible  of  the  charms  of  instrumen- 
tal music,  or  that  I  wish  to  exclude  it  from  the 
education  of  a  lady  where  a  musical  ear  irresist- 
ably  disposes  to  it,  and  affluence  at  the  same  time 
affords  a  prospect  of  such  an  exemption  from  the 
usual  cares  and  duties  of  the  mistress  of  a  fami- 
ly, as  will  enable  her  to  practice  it.  These  cir- 
cumstances form  an  exception  to  the  general  con- 
duct that  should  arise  upon  this  subject,  from  the 
present  state  of  society  and  manners  in  America. 

It  is  agreeable  to  observe  how  differently  mo- 
dern writers  and  the  inspired  author  of  the  Pro- 
verbs describe  a  fine  woman.  The  former  con- 
fine their  praises  chiefly  to  personal  charms  and 
ornamental  accomplishments,  while  the  latter  cel- 
ebrates only  the  virtues  of  a  valuable  mistress  of 
a  family  and  a  useful  member  of  society.  The 
one  is  perfectly  acquainted  with  all  the  fashiona- 
ble languages  of  Europe  ;  the  other,  "  opens  her 
mouth  with  wisdom"  and  is  perfectly  acquainted 
with  all  the  uses  of  the  needle,  the  distaff  and  the 
loom.  The  business  of  the  one,  is  pleasure  ;  the 
pleasure  of  the  other,  is  business.  The  one  is 
admired  abroad ;  the  other  is  honoured  and  be- 
loved at  home.  "  Her  children  rise  up  and  call 
her  blessed,  her  husband  also,  and  fte  praiseth 
her."  There  is  no  fame  in  the  world  equal  to 
this  ;  nor  is  there  a  note  in  music  half  so  delight- 
ful, as  the  respectful  language  with  which  a  grate  - 


74  RUSH  ON  EDUCATION. 

nil  son  or  daughter  perpetuates  the  memory  of  a 
sensible  and  affectionate  mother. 

It  should  not  surprise  us  that  British  customs, 
with  respect  to  female  education,  have  been  trans*- 
planted  into  our  American  schools  and  families. 
We  see  marks  of  the  same  incongruity,  of  time 
and  place,  in  many  other  things.  We  behold  our 
houses  accommodated  to  the  climate  of  Great- 
Britain,  by  eastern  and  western  directions.  We 
behold  our  ladies  panting  in  a  heat  of  ninety  de- 
grees, under  a  hat  and  cushion,  which  were  cal- 
culated for  the  temperature  of  a  British  summer. 
We  behold  our  citizens  condemned  and  punished 
by  a  criminallaw,  which  was  copied  from  a  coun- 
try, where  maturity  in  corruption  renders  public 
executions  a  part  of  the  amusements  of  the  nation. 
It  is  high  time  to  awake  from  this  servility — to 
study  our  own  character — to  examine  the  age  .of 
our  country — and  to  adopt  manners  in  every  thing, 
that  shall  be  accommodated  to  our  state  of  socie- 
ty, and  to  the  forms  of  our  government.  In  par- 
ticular it  is  incumbent  upon  us  to  make  ornamen- 
tal accomplishments  yield  to  principles  and  know- 
ledge, in  the  education  of  our  women. 

A  philosopher  once  said  "  let  me  make  all  the 
ballads  of  a  country  and  I  care  not  who  makes 
its  laws."  He  might  with  more  propriety  have 
said,  let  the  ladies  of  a  country  be  educated  pro- 
perly, and  they  will  not  only  make  and  adminis- 
ter its  laws,  but  form  its  manners  and  character. 
It  would  require  a  lively  imagination  to  describe, 
or  even  to  comprehend,  the  happiness  of  a  coun- 
try, where  knowledge  and  virtue,  were  generally 
diffused  among  the  female  sex.  Our  young  men 
would  then  be  restrained  from  vice  by  the  terror 
of  being  banished  from  their  company.  The  loud 
laugh,  and  the  malignant  smile,  at  the  expense  of 


RUSH    ON    EDUCATION.  75 

innocence,  or  of  personal  infirmities — the  feats  of 
successful   mimickry — and    the   low  priced   wit, 
which  is  borrowed  from  a  misapplication  of  scrip- 
ture phrases,  would  no  more  be  considered  as  re- 
commendations to  the  society  of  the  ladies.     A 
double  entendre  in  their  presence,  would  then  ex- 
clude a    gentleman  forever  from   the  company  of 
both  sexes,  and  probably  oblige   him  to  seek   an 
asylum   from  Contempt,  in   a  foreign  country. — 
The  influence   of  female  education  would  be  still 
more  extensive  and  useful  in  domestic  life.  The 
obligations   of  gentlemen  to   qualify   themselves 
by  knowledge  and  industry  to  discharge   the  du- 
ties of  benevolence,  would  be  increased  by  mar- 
riage ;    and  the  patriot — the  hero — and  the  legis- 
lator, would  find   the   sweetest  reward    of  their 
toils,    in    the  approbation  and   applause   of  their 
wives*     Children   would   discover  the   marks  of 
maternal  prudence    and  wisdom  in  every  station 
of  life  :  for  it  has  been  remarked  that  there  have 
been    few  great  or  good  men  who  have  not  been 
blessed  with   wise  and  prudent  mothers.     Cyrus 
was  taught   to    revere  the    gods,   by  his   mother 
Mandane — Samuel  was  devoted  to  his  prophetic 
office  before  he  was  born,  by  his  mother  Hannah 
— Constantine  was  rescued  from  paganism  by  his 
mother  Constantia— and  Edward  the  sixth  inhe- 
rited  those  great   and   excellent  qualities  which 
made  him  the  delight  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived, 
from    his  mother,   lady  Jane  Seymour.     Many 
other  instances  might  be  mentioned,  if  necessary, 
from  ancient  and  modern  history,  to  establish  the 
truth  of  this  proposition. 

I  am  not  enthusiastical  upon  the  subject  of 
education.  In  the  ordinary  course  of  human  af- 
fairs, we  shall  probably  too  soon  follow  the  foot- 
steps of  the  nations  of  Europe  in  manners  and 


7'3  DRESS. 

vices.  The  first  marks  we  shall  perceive  of  our 
declension,  will  appear  among  our  women.  Their 
idleness,  ignorance  and  profligacy  will  be  the  har- 
bingers of  our  ruin.  Then  will  the  character  and 
peformance  of  a  buffoon  on  the  theatre,  be  the 
subject  of  more  conversation  and  praise,  than  the 
patriot  or  the  minister  of  the  gospel : — then  will 
our  language  and  pronunciation  be  enfeebled  and 
corrupted  by  a  flood  of  French  and  Italian  words  ; 
then  will  the  history  of  romantic  amours,  be  pre- 
ferred to  the  pure  and  immortal  writings  of  Ad- 
dison, Hawkesworth  and  Johnson  ; — then  will 
our  churches  be  neglected,  and  the  name  of  the 
Supreme  Being  never  be  called  upon,  but  in  pro- 
fane exclamations:  then  will  our  Sundays  be  ap- 
propriated only  to  feasts  and  concerts  ; — and 
then  will  begin  all  that  train  of  domestic  and  po- 
litical calamities — But,  I  forbear.  The  pros- 
pect is  so  painful,  that  I  cannot  help,  silently,  im- 
ploring the  great  arbiter  of  human  affairs,  to  in- 
terpose his  almighty  goodness,  and  to  deliver  us 
from  these  evils,  that,  at  least  one  spot  of  the 
earth  may  be  reserved  as  a  monument  of  the  ef* 
fects  of  good  education,  in  order  to  show  in  some 
degree,  what  our  species  was,  before  the  fall,  and 
what  it  shall  be,  after  its  restoration. 


DRESS. 


BY  far  too  much  of  a  girl's  time  is  taken  up  in 
dress.  This  is  an  external  accomplishment  ;  but 
I  chose  to  consider  it  by  itself.  The  body  hides 
the  mind,  and  it  is  in  its  turn  obscured  by  the  dra- 
pery. I  hate  to  see  the  frame  of  a  picture  so 
glaring  as  to  catch  the  eye  and  divide  the  atten- 


BENEVOLENT  EMPLOYMENTS,         77 

tion  :  dress  ought  to  adorn  the  person,  and  not 
rival  it.  It  may  be  simple,  elegant  and  becom- 
ing, without  being  expensive  :  and  ridiculous 
fashions  disregarded,  while  singularity  is  avoided. 
The  beauty  of  dress  (I  shall  raise  astonishment 
by  saying  so)  is  its  not  being  conspicuous  one  way 
or  the  other;  when  it  neither  distorts  or  hides  the 
human  form  by  unnatural  protuberances.  If  or- 
naments are  much  studied,  a  consciousness  of  be- 
ing well  dressed  will  appear  in  the  face  ;  and  sure- 
ly this  mean  pride  does  not  give  much  sublimity 
to  it.  '  One  of  the  abundance  of  the  heart  the 
mouth  speaketh.'  And  how  much  conversation 
floes  dress  furnish  which  surely  .cannot  be  very 
improving  or  entertaining. 


BENEVOLENT    EMPLOYMENTS. 

I  BEG  leave  to  recommend  a  branch  of  chari- 
ty which  is  too  much  neglected  amongst  us  ;  I 
mean  that  of  \  isiting  poor  persons  in  sicknexs 
and  affliction  at  their  own  houses. 

The  pleasure  which  accompanies  benevolent 
actions,  almost  every  woman,  when  in  health,  can 
in  some  measure  purchase  for  herself  ;  and  the . 
calls  on  our  humanity  are  more  frequent  than  on 
that  of  the  other  sex,  as  there  are  a  variety  of  dis- 
tresses which  we  only  can  personally  relieve. 

Let  us  begin  with  childing-women.  We  will 
suppose  that  the  poor  enured  to  hardships  from 
their  infancy,  have  in  general  more  strengih  than 
persons  in  superior  stations  to  support  the  evils 
•which  are,  in  some  degree,  the  allotted  portions  of 
all  mothers  :  but  they  certainly  are  not  exempted 


78  OPINION    O?- ROMANCE^. 

from  the  curse  denounced  on  their  sex — they  feel 
it  in  its  full  force,  c  In  sorrow,  (in  accumulated 
-sorrow)  they  bring  forth  children.'  It  is  there- 
fore an  act  of  compassion,  becoming  all  women 
who  have  ability  to  do  it,  to  mitigate  the  dreadful 
bufferings  which  fall  to  the  lot  of  many  of  their 
fellow  creatures.  It  must  be  acknowledged  that 
ladies  in  general  are  ready  to  afford  pecuniary  as- 
sistance whenever  a  poor  woman  can  find  a  friend 
to  represent  her  horrid  situation  ;  but  instead  of 
sending  money,  which  may  be  misapplied  by  a 
drunken  or  sordid  nurse,  or  even  by  a  sottish  hus- 
band, it  would  answer  a  better  purpose,  if  some, 
who  can  judge  by  sympathy  of  the  feelings  of 
these  poor  wretches,  would  enter  their  miserable 
dwellings,  and  view  them  in  their  uncomfortable 
-beds* 


OPINION    OF    ROMANCES. 

ROMANCES  are  dangerous  recreations.  A 
:ew,  no  doubt,  of  the  best  may  be  friendly  to  good 
taste  and  good  morals  ;  but  far  the  greater  part 
are  unskilfully  written,  and  tend  to  corrupt  the 
"heart  and  stimulate  the  passions.  A  habit  of 
reading  them  breeds  a  dislike  to  history,  and  all 
the.  substantial  parts  of  knowledge,  withdraws 
the  attention  from  nature  and  truth  ;  and  fills  the 
mind  with  extravagant  thoughts,  and  too  often 
with  criminal  propensities.  I  would  therefore 
-caution  my  young  readeT  against  them  :  or,  if  he 
must  for  the  sake  of  amusement,  and  that  he  may 


AUT    OF    IMPROVING- TIME.  7$ 

have"  something  to  say  on  the  subject,  indulge 
himself  in  this  way  now  and  then,  let  it  be  spar- 
ingly and  seldom. 


THE  ART  OF  IMPROVING  BEAUTY. 

MONSIEUR  ST.  EVREMONT  has  con- 
eluded  one  of  his  essays  by  affirming  that  the 
last  sighs  of  a  handsome  woman  are  not  so  much 
for  the  loss  of  her  life  as  of  her  beauty.  Perhaps 
this  raillery  is  pursued  too  far  :  yet  it  is  turned 
upon  a  very  obvious  remark,  that  a  woman's 
strongest  passion  is  for  her  own  beauty,  and  that 
she  values  it  as  her  favourite  distinction.  From 
hence  it  is  that  all  arts  which  tend  to  improve  or 
preserve  it  meet  with  so  general  a  reception 
amongst  the  sex.  To  say  nothing  of  many  false 
helps,  and  contraband  wares  of  beauty,  which 
are  daily  vended  in  this  great  mart,  there  is  not  a 
maiden  gentlewoman  of  a  good  family  in  anv 
county  in  South  Britain,  who  has  not  heard  of 
the  virtues  of  May-  dew,  or  is  not  furnished  with 
some  receipt  or  other  in  favour  of  her  complex- 
ion ;  and  I  have  known  a  physician  of  learning 
and  sense,  after  eight  years  study  at  the  univer- 
sity, and  a  course  ot~  travels  into  most  countries 
of  Europe,  owe  the  first  raising  of  his  fortunes 
to  a -cosmetic  wash. 

This  has  given  me  occasion  to  consider  how 
so  universal  a  disposition  in  woman-lnhd,  which 
spruigsfrom  a  laudable  motive,  the  desire  of  plea- 
sing, an  J  proceeds  upon  an  opinion,  not  altogeth- 
er groundless,  that  nature  may  be  helped  by  art, 
may  be  turned  to  their  advantage  :  and  methinks 
at  would  be-an  acceptable  service  to  take  them  out 


SO        ART  OF  IMPROVING  BEAUTY. 

of  the  hands  of  quacks  and  pretenders,  and  to 
prevent  their  imposing  upon  themselves,  by  dis- 
covering to  them  the  true  secret  and  art  of  im- 
proving beauty* 

In  order  to  this,  before  I  touch  upon  it  direct- 
ly, it  will  be  necessary  to  lay  down  a  few  prelimi- 
nary maxims,  viz. 

That  no  woman  can  be  handsome  by  the  force 
of  features  alone,  any  more  than  she  can  be 
witty  only  by  the  help  of  speech. 

That  pride  destroys  all  symmetry  and  grace, 
and  affectation  is  a  more  terrible  enemy  to 
faces  than  the  small  pox. 

That  no  woman  is  capable  of  being  beautiful 
who  is  not  incapable  of  being  false. 

And,  that  what  would  be  odious  in  a  friend  is 
deformity  in  a  mistress. 

From  these  few  principles,  thus  laid  down,  it 
will  be  easy  to  prove  that  the  true  art  of  assisting 
beauty  consists  in  embellishing  the  whole  person 
by  the  proper  ornaments  of  virtuous  and  com- 
mendable qualities.  By  this  help  alone  it  is  that 
those  who  are  the  favourite  works  of  nature,  or, 
as  Mr.  Dryden  expresses  it,  the  porcelain  clay  of 
human  kind,  become  animated,  and  are  in  a  capa- 
city of  exerting  their  charms  :  and  those  who 
seem  to  have  been  neglected  by  her,  like  models 
wrought  in  haste,  are  capable,  in  a  great  measure, 
of  finishing  what  she  has  left  imperfecta 

It  is,  methinks,  a  low  and  degraded  idea  of  that 
sex,  which  war,  created  to  refine  the  joys  and  sof- 
ten the  cares  of  hu-maiiity  by  the  most  agreeable 
participation,  to  consider  them  merely  as  objects 
of  sight.  This  is  abridging  them  of  their  natu- 
ral extent  of  power,  to  put  them  on  a  level  with 
etheir  pictures  at  Kneller's.  How  much  nobler  is 
the    contemplation  of  beauty  heightened  -by  vir- 


ART  OF  IMPROVING  BEAUTY.         Si 

tue,  and  commanding  our  esteem  and  love,  while 
a  draws  our  observation  !  How  faint  and  spirit- 
less are  the  charms  of  a  coquet,  when  compared 
with  the  real  loveliness  of  Sophronia's  innocence, 
piety,  good-humour,  and  truth ;  virtues  which  add 
a  new  softness  to  her  sex,  and  even  beautify  her 
beauty  !  Colours  beautifully  spread  upon  canvas 
may  entertain  the  eye  but  not  affect  the  heart;  and 
she  who  takes  no  care  to  add  to  the  natural  graces 
of  her  person,  any  excelling  qualities  may  be  al- 
lowed still  to  amuse  as  a  picture,  but  not  to  tri- 
umph as  a  beauty. 

When  Adam  is  introduced  by  Milton  describing 
Eve  in  Paradise,  and  relating  to  the  angel  the 
impressions  he  felt  upon  seeing  her  at  her  first 
creation,  he  does  not  represent  her  like  a  Grecian 
Venus,  by  her  shape  or  features,  but  by  the  lustre 
of  her  mind,  which  shone  in  them,  and  gave  them 
their  power  of  charming. 

Grace  was  in  all  her  steps,  heav'n  in  her  eye, 

In  all  her  gestures  dignity  and  love  ! 

Without  this  irradiating  power  the  proudest  fair 
one  ought  to  know,  whatever  her  dress  may  tell 
her  to  the  contrary,  that  her  most  perfect  features 
are  uninformed  and  dead 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES. 


FILIAL    AFFECTION. 

VALERIUS  MAXIMUS  relates  a  very 
singular  fact  upon  this  subject.  A  woman  of  illus- 
trious birth  had  been  condemned  to  be  strangled. 
The  Roman  praetor  delivered  her  up  to  the  tri- 
umvir, who  caused  her  to  be  carried  to  prison,  in 
order  to  her  being  put  to  death.  The  goaler,  who 
was  ordered  to  execute  her,  was  struck  with  com- 
passion, and  could  not  resolve  to  kill  her.  He 
chose  therefore  to  let  her  die  of  hunger.  Besides 
which,  he  suffered  her  daughter  to  see  her  in  pri- 
son; takingcare,  however,  that  she  brought  her  no- 
thing to  eat.  As  this  continued  many  days,  he 
was  surprised  that  the  prisoner  lived  so  long  with- 
out eating,  and  suspected  the  daughter,  upon 
Watching  her,  he  discovered  that  she  nourished 
her  mother  with  her  own  milk.  Amazed  at  so 
pious,  and,  at  the  same  time,  so  ingenious  an  in- 
vention, he  told  the  fact  to  the  triumvir,  and  the 
triumvir  to  the  praetor,  who  believed  the  thing 
merited  relating  in  the  assembly  of  the  people. 
The  criminal  was  pardoned  ;  a  decree  was  passed 
that  the  mother  and  daughter  should  be  subsisted 
for  the  rest  of  their  lives  at  the  expense  of  the 
public,  and  that  a  temple  sacred  to  piety  should 
be  erected  near  the  prison.  pltn.  hist. 

The  same  author  gives  a  similar  instance  of 
filial   piety  in  a  young  woman  named  Xantippe, 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES*  83 

to  her  aged  father  Gimonus,  who  was  likewise 
confined  in  prison,  and  which  is  universally  known 
by  the  name  of  the  Roman  Charity.  Both  these 
instances  appeared  so  very  extraordinary  and  un- 
common to  that  people,  that  they  could  only  ac- 
count for  them,  by  supposing  that  the  love  of  chil- 
dren to  their  parents  was  the  first  law  of  nature. 


MATERNAL   AFFECTION. 

THERE  are  no  ties  in  nature  to  compare  with 
those  which  unite  an  affectionate  mother  to  her 
children,,  when  they  repay  her  tenderness  with 
obedience  and  love. 

Cornelia,  the  illustrious  mother  of  the  Gracchi, 
after  the  death  of  her  husband,  who  left  her  twelve 
children,  applied  herself  to  the  care  of  her  fami- 
ly, with  a  wisdom  and  prudence  that  acquired  her 
universal  esteem.     Only  three  out  of  the  twelve 
lived  to  years  of  maturity,  one  daughter  and  two 
sons,  whom  she  brought  up'  with  so  much  care, 
that,  though  they  were  born  with  the  most  happy 
geniuses   and  dispositions,    it  was   thought  they 
were  more  indebted  to  education  than  nature. — 
The  answer  she  gave  to  a  lady  of  her  acquaintance 
concerning  them,    is  worthy  of  remark,   and  in- 
cludes in  it  instructions  which  deserve  the  atten- 
tion  of  every  affectionate  mother  and  daughter. 
The  lady,  who  was  very  rich,  and  still  fonder 
of  pomp  and  shew,  after  having  displayed  in  a 
visit  she  made  her,  her  diamonds,  pearls  and  rich- 
est jewels,  earnestly  desired  Cornelia,  to  let  her 
see  her  jewels  also."    Cornelia  dexterously  turned 
the  conversation  to  another  subject,  till  her  chil- 
dren were  returned  from  school.  When  they  en- 


S4  HISTORICAL    SKETCHES. 

tered  her  mother's  apartment,  she  said  to  the  lady, 
her  companion,  pointing  to  them  with  her  hand, 
"  These  are  my  jewels,  and  the  only  ornaments  I 
admire.0  And  such  ornaments,  which  are  the 
strength  and  support  of  society,  add  a  brighter 
lustre  to  the  fair,  than  all  the  jewels  of  the  east* 

BEAUTIES  OF    HITORY. 


CONJUGAL  AFFECTION. 

EXEMPLIFIED     IN    THE    STORY    OF    CYRUS,    KINO    OF 
PERSIA. 

OF  all  the  pleasures  which  endear  human  life, 
there  are  none  more  worthy  the  attention  of  a  ra- 
tional creatore,  than  those  that  flow  from  the  mu- 
tual return  of  conjugal  love. 

When  two  minds  are  thus  engaged  by  the  ties 
of  reciprocal  affe-ctio'n,  each  alternately  receives 
and  communicates  a  transport,  inconceivable  to 
all  but  those  who  are  in  this  situation  :  whence 
arises,  that  heart-ennobling  solicitude  for  one 
another's  welfare  ;  that  tender  sympathy,  which 
alleviates  affliction  ;  and  that  participated  plea- 
sure, which  heightens  prosperity  and  joy  itself. 

The  following  is  a  beautiful  instance  of  this  ex- 
alted passion  : 

Cyrus,  king  of  Persia,  had  taken  captive  the 
young  prince  of  Armenia,  together  with  his  beau- 
tiful and  blooming  princess,  whom  he  had  lately 
married,  and  of  whom  he  was  passionately  fond. 
When  they,  along  with  other  prisoners,  were 
brought  before  the  tribunal, '  Cyrus  asked  the 
prince  "  What  he  would  give  to  be  reinstated  in 
his  kingdom:"  He   answered,  with  an  air  of  in* 


THE    WOMEN"    OF    HENS3ERG.  &5 

difference, '  That,  as  for  his  crown,  and  his  own 
liberty,  he  valued  them  at  a  very  low  rate  :  but, 
if  Cyrus  would  restore  his  beloved  princess  to 
her  native  dignity,  and  hereditary  possessions,  he 
should  infinitely  rejoice ;  and  would  pay,  (this 
he  uttered  with  tenderness  and  ardour)  *  would 
willingly  pay  his  life  for  the  purchase.' 

When  all  the  prisoners  were  dismissed  with 
freedom,  it  is  impossible  to  express  how  much 
they  were  charmed  with  their  royal  benefactor. 
Some  celebrated  his  martial  abilities,  some  ap- 
plauded his  social  virtues  ;  all  were  prodigal  of 
their  praises,  and  lavish  in  grateful  acknowledge- 
ments. 4  And  you,' said  the  prince,  addressing 
himself  to  his  bride  ;  *  What  think  you  of  Cy- 
rus V  *  I  did  not  observe  him,'  said  the  princess. 
4  Not  observe  him  !  Upon  what  then  was  your  at- 
tention fixed  ?' — c  Upon  that  dear  and  generous 
man,  who  declared,  that  he  would  purchase  my 
liberty  at  the  expense  of  his  own  life  !' 


TME    WOMEN  OF    HENSBERG. 

WHEN  the  emperor  Conrad  III.  had  be- 
seiged  Gullphus,  duke  of  Bavaria,  in  the  city  ot 
Henaberg,  the  women  finding  that  the  town  could 
not  possibly  hold  out,  petitioned  the  emperor,  that 
they  might  depart  out  of  it  with  as  much  as  each 
of  them  could  carry.  The  emperor  knowing  they 
could  iiQt  take  away  any  great  quantity  of  their 
effects,  granted  their  petition  ;  when  the  women, 
to  his  great  surprise,  came  out  of  the  place,  each 
of  them  with  their  husband  upon  her  back*  The 
emperor  was  so  moved  at  the  sight,  that  he  burst 
into  tears  ;    and  after  having  m.uth  exl  >%  ;  the 

H 


86  HISTORICAL    SKETCHES, 

women  for  their  conjugal  affection,  gave  the  men 
to  their  wives,  and  received  the  duke  into  his  fa- 
vour. 


A   NOBLE    EXAMPLE    OF 

VIRTUE  AND    FORTITUDE, 

IN    THE     HISTORY    OF    FEL1CITAS,     THE    MARTYR, 
AND    HER    SEVEN     CHILDREN. 

AMONG  all  the  female  sex,  who  are  candi- 
dates for  the  admiration  of  posterity,  the  lady 
whose  history  I  now  offer,  is  among  the  foremost. 

In  those  early  periods,  when  our  religion  was 
as  yet  but  thinly  disseminated  through  the  world; 
when  the  tyrants  frowned,  the  gibbet  threatened, 
and  all  the  laws  of  every  country  seemed  armed 
with  vengeance  to  oppose  it,  then,  bravely  to  as- 
sert the  cause  of  Christianity  might  dignify  the 
greatest  hero ;  but  how  much  greater  is  the 
praise,  when  a  feeble  woman  boldly  asserts  her 
master's  cause,  and  for  his  sake,  gives  up  to  the 
executioner,  not  only  her  own  person,  but  the  per- 
sons of  her  seven  sons,  all  remarkable  for  their 
courage,  fidelity,  beauty  and  unerring  virtue. 

Feiicitas  was  born  at  Rome,  in  the  reign  of 
Trajan  the  emperor,  at  the  time  when  the  general 
persecution  against  the  christians  was  beginning 
to  subside.  This  interval  of  rest  to  Christianity 
:  erved  to  spread  its  doctrines,  and  invigorate  its 
professors  for  any  future  contingent  calamity. — 
Feiicitas  was  the  daughter  of  a  Roman  senator, 
who  had  been  formerly  converted  himself,  and 
gave  all  his  family  a  christian  education  :  but 
chjs  daughter  in  particular  engaged  his  greatest 


BT'ORtjCAL  sketches.  87 

attention.     She  was  the  child  of  his  age,  and  the 
object,  next  to  heaven,  of  his  peculiar  care.     She 
was  equally  remarkable  for  sense  and  beauty,  and 
she  added  virtue  to  both,   which  finishes  the  pic- 
ture.    She  was  sought    for   in  marriage    by  per- 
sons of  the  greatest  eminence  then  in  the  Roman 
empire,  and  at  last  made  choice  of  one,  who  was 
equally  zealous  in  the  cause    of  Christianity  with 
herself.     This  couple  lived  together  with  the  ut- 
most harmony  for  several  years,  and   had  seven 
children,  all  sons,  who  were  early  instruct, 
principles  of  their  parents.     The  lather,    howe- 
ver,   dying,    and    Adrian  ascending  the    tl 
the  sons,  in  order  to  support  the  honour  of  the 
inily,  and  with  the  consent  of  the  mother,  wen 
the  Roman    army,  which  was  employed  in  s 
ping  the  incursions  of  the  Parthians    and 
sians,  who  now  began  to  invade  the  empire.    Up 
on  their  arrival  at  the  army,  and  being  dressed  ir 
uniform,    Adrian,  in  reviewing  his  troops,    was 
particularly  struck  with  the  exquisite  form  of  the 
oldest  as  he  passed  along,  but  his  pleasure  increas- 
ed^ when  he  saw  six  more,  all  Ci  whom,  he  knew 
by  their  faces,  were  brothers.     He  therefore  de- 
manded who  they  were,  and  being-  informed,  made 
Januarius,  the  eldest,  the   tribune  of  his  own  co- 
hort, and  gave  each  of  the  rest,  some  subordinate 
posts  in  his  army.     The  confidence  he  reposed  in 
them  was  by  no  means  misplaced,   not  even   the 
oldest  officers,  shewed  more  complacencv  in  c?r 
or  more    bravery  in  the  day  of  battle.      In  their 
own  example  they  revived  true  militarv  glory,  and 
taught  Rome    to  behold   the  spirit   of  ancient  in- 
trepidity not    entirely  extinguished.     The    very 
name  of  Januarius,   grew  terrible  to    the  enemy, 
and  yet  the  merciful  manner,  in  which  he  treated 
.them  when  subdued,    and  his  giving  them  their 


33  HISTORICAL    SKETCHES. 

ilberty,  on  condition  of  turning  christians,  at- 
tracted their  love,  respect,  and  esteem.  In  this 
manner  they  continued  to  fight  the  battles  of  their 
country  for  several  years,  whilst  every  messenger 
brought  to  Rome,  some  new. accounts  of  their  ge- 
nerosity, their  courage;  and  the  wounds  they  had 
received  or  given.  Their  country  was  pleased, 
:md  praised  their  merit;  but  chilly  their  mother, 
though  now  grown  old,  thought  herself  happy. — 
She  received  the  news  of  their  victories  wiih 
pleasure,  :u:d  thanked  heaven  that  gave  her  an  op- 
portunity of  bringing  into  the  world,  so  many  he- 
roes for  the  defence  of  their  declining  country. 
Upon  Adrian's  return,  after  conquering  the  ene- 
my, a  triumph  was  decreed  him  by  the  senate, 
anci  he  entered  Rome  in  the  usual  solemnities, 
with  his  whole  army,  and  the  captives  and  spoils 
taken  from  the  enemy  ;  but  in  the  whole  army> 
none  were  more  remarkable  than  the  seven  bro- 
thers, all  exactly  cloathed  alike  in  .similar  armour, 
||d  all  covered  over  with  the  wounds  they  had 
received  in  several  years  hard  campaigns.  The 
acclamations  of  the  people  were  loudest  whenever 
they  p^sed  by,  whilst  they  moved  forward  with 
modest  downcast  looks,  and  at  last  went  to  pay 
those  duties  which  they  longed  to  pay  to  their 
moiher.  They  continued  in  Rome  for  some  years, 
and  though  they  had  been  long  bred  soldiers,  yet 
a  military  life  only  served  to  increase  their  love  for 
Christianity,  being,  if  possible,  rather  more  re- 
markable for  their  piety  than  their  valour.  It 
was  in  the  reign  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  that  a  new 
persecution  commenced  against  christians  of  eve- 
ry denomination  -.neither  sex,  age,  dignity,  nor 
former  services  were  remembered,  but  all  were 
indiscriminately  dragged  to  execution,  and  suf- 
fered ail  the  nunishments  that   barbarous  super- 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES.  89 

•stition,  or  mistaken  zeal  could  inflict.  Among 
the  number,  who  were  accused  of  being  chris- 
tians, were  Felicitas  the  matron,  and  her  seven 
^ons.  The  idolatrous  priests,  had  long  been  in- 
censed at  the  numbers  which  were  converted  to 
Christianity  by  their  influence,  arguments,  and 
example.  They  complained  to  the  emperor,  then 
at  Rome,  representing  her  and  her  sons  as  so  ma- 
ny-implacable enemies  to  the  gods,  of  Rome,  and 
assuring  him  that  the  security  of  his  empire  de- 
pended on  appeasing  the  offended  deities  by  their 
blood.  They  were  therefore  seized  in  their  own 
palace,  and  orders  were  given  from  the  emperor 
himself,  that  they  shoujd  recant  their  opinions,  or 
suffer  the  punishment  which  the  magistrates,  in 
such  cases,  were  empowered  to  decree.  It  was 
in  vain  that  the  unhappy  family  remonstrated,  that, 
they  had  long  faithfully  served  their  emperor  and 
country,  when  the}-  were  most  wanted,  and  that  it 
was  hard  now  to  condemn  them  for  opinions  they 
had  before  professed  with  openness  and  impuni- 
ty ,*  they  enlarged  on  the  favours  they  received 
from  Nerva,  and  entreated  at  last  to  be  rescued 
from  the  resentment  tff  the  priesthood,  and  that 
if  they  must  fall,  that  it  might  be  by  the  judg- 
ment of  a  secular  tribunal.  Upon  this  the  em- 
peror's orders  were  dispatched  to  Publius,  whe 
was  then  governor  of  Rome,  to  see  the  judgment 
executed  without  severity  :  but  Publius  himself 
was  one  of  the  number  of  those,  who  still  adher- 
ed to  the  barbarous  worship  established  by  law 
-and  who  was  one  of  the  most  zealous  persecutory 
of  the  christians  that  had  ever  been  known  before, 
He  therefore  called  the  christian  family  into  his 
presence,  and  began  with  fhe  mother,  now  aged 
seventy-three,  imagining  that  if  he  could  gain 
her,  the  example  would  influence  he*  ;  Mb' 


30  HISTORICAL    SKETCHES. 

same  time  hoping  that  maternal  tenderness  would 
induce  her  to  change  her  opinions,  merely  to  se- 
cure her  children.  He  therefore  addressed  her  in 
the  language  of  an  able  orator  ;  laid  before  her 
the  numberless  advantages  that  would  result  to 
her  upon  her  abjuring  of  Christianity ;  talked 
largely  of  the  religion  of  her  ancestors,  by  which 
they  had  grown  into  power  and  fame,  and  display- 
ed the  ill  consequences  that  would  be  the  result 
if  Christianity  should  prevail :  but  to  those  re- 
monstrances Felickas  answered,  "  That  she  had 
learned  the  truth  of  her  religion  from  her  very  f 
infancy,  of  which  she  was  thoroughly  convinced, 
and  that  to  recant  them  now,  would  only  be  giv- 
ing the  lie  to  her  professions.  She  knew,  she 
said,  all  that  could  be  urged  against  her,  and  was 
prepared  to  receive  it.  Her  ancestors,  she  told 
him,  had  many  of  them  died  for  iheir  country, 
but-  she  was  determined  to  be  greater  still,  and 
.lie  for  her  God.^ 

The.  magistrate  now  began  to  change  his  lan- 
guage, and  let  her  understand  the  tortures 
that  were  prepared  in  case  she  should  refuse  : 
but  Felicitas  with  a  look  of  the  utmost  intrepidi- 
ty, regarding  her  children  that  stood  round  her, 
replied,  u  that  she  had  seven  sons  who  were  not 
terrified  when  surrounded  with  dangers,  and  that 
she  would  shew  herself  worthy  to  be  their  mo- 
ther." Publius  surprised,  at  the  resolution  of 
her  reply,  endeavoured  to  bring  her  to  compliance, 
<:  v  observing,  that  though  she  had  no  considera- 
tion for  her  own  life,  yet  he  hoped  she  would 
have  some  tenderness  for  the  lives  of  her  children. 
To  which  she  answered,  "  that  life  and  death 
were  things  but  of  small  consequence  in  her  esti- 
mation, and  that  whether  her  children  lived  or 
*iied,    she  hoped  they  would  behave   like  p:\ 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES.  91 

sots  of  Christianity,  like  soldiers,  and  like  men." 
This  was  the  first  conference,  and  was  held  pri- 
vately, at  the  governor's  own  house  ;  but  the 
next  day  he  took  his  seat,  in  the  place  appointed 
for  the  public  examination  of  criminals,  and  or- 
dered the  prisoners  to  be  conducted  from  their 
dungeons  into  his  presence.  Upon  their  appear- 
ance, he  again  accosted  the  heroic  mother,  observ- 
ing, u  that  her  life  might  be  indifferent  to  her, 
as  she  had  not  long  to  live,  yet  it  was  her  duty  to 
regard  her  children,  whose  flourishing  youth, 
promised  long  service  to  society."  u  No,  repli- 
ed the  undaunted  matron,  they  have  long  fought 
for  their  ungrateful  country,  their  God,  now  calls 
for  an  exertion  of  their  courage,  and  as  they  for- 
merly toiled  for  transitory  reward,  let  them  now 
fight  for  rewards  that  shall  be  eternal."  The 
warmth  of  this  reply  raised  the  judge's  utmost 
indignation,  he  considered  it  as  an  insult  upon 
his  authority,  and  ordered  her  to  be  struck  on 
the  face  for  her  presumption,  and  to  be  instantly 
removed  from  the  tribunal. 

The  judge  now  signified  his  desire  to  examine 
the  sons,  which  he  undertook  to  do  separately, 
and  Januarius,  the  tribune,  was  first  brought  to 
his  trial.  The  governor  attempted  to  shake  his 
constancy,  by  shewing  him  what  preferments,  au- 
thorized by  the  emperor  himself,  would  attend 
his  conforming  to  the  religion  by  law  established, 
at  the  same  time,  laying  before  him  what  cruel 
tortures  must  attend  his  refusal.  But  Januaiius 
•sliil  remained  inflexible,  and  shewed  his  bosom  all 
covered  with  wounds-  "  Think  you,"  cries  he, 
tl  ttt.at  I,  who  have  borne  all  these  in  fighting  for 
*;  you  while  you  remained  inactive  here,  will  fear 
u  to  receive  a  thousand  for  the  master  who  died 
"for    me?   No]  prepare   your    whips    and    tor- 


92  HISTORICAL    SKETCHES* 

"  ments  ;  nt  least  you  shall  find,  that  as  I  have 
*c  given  my  fellow  soldiers  an  example  how  to  live, 
**  they  shall  see  in  me,  an  example  how  to  die." 

This  reply  only  exasperated  the  governor  still 
the  more,  he  therefore  ordered  him  to  be  immedi- 
ately whipped  in  his  presence,  at  the  same  time 
loading  him  with  invectives.  While  the  orders 
were  performing,  Felix,  the  second  son  of  this 
illustrious  family,  was  called  forth  to  the  tribunal, 
who  followed  his  brother's  example,  and  met  with 
the  same  treatment.  Philip,  the  third  brother 
was  then  brought  forward,  and  told  the  emperor's 
orders,  were,  that  he  should  sacrifice  to  Mars ; 
to  which  he  replied,  "  that  the  God  which  had 
given  him  courage  in  battle,  he  had  sacrificed  to 
every  day  :  and  whilst  he  had  life  he  would  never 
quit  his  standard,  nor  by  a  base  desertion  gain 
his  safety  here,  by  the  loss  of  immortality. 1; 
In  this  manner,  they  all  persisted  in  their  adher- 
ence to  Christianity.  But  the  governor  had  some 
hopes  of  prevailing  with  the  youngest,  as  he  was 
as  yet  but  a  mere  youth,  and  consequently  una- 
abie  to  refute  the  objections  which  could  be  brought 
against  it,  There  was,  therefore,  every  method 
tried  to  influence  him  :  he  was  told  that  the  em- 
peror had  a  right  to  challenge  his  obedience  pre- 
ferable to  his  mother,  and  had  it  in  his  power 
to  exact  it  under  severe  penalties.  But  the 
young  christian  replied,  that,  "  It  was  true  he 
owed  the  emperor  his  duty,  but  that  his  God 
challenged  it  first ;  that  gratitude,  justice,  and 
every  other  motive  conspired  to  make  him  the 
servant,  first  of  an  heavenly  master  ;  and  when 
his  duties  to  him  were  fulfilled,  that  then  he 
should  discharge  all  that  was  due  to  his  temporal 
.-sjovereigno'" 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES.  93 

in  this  manner  they  were  brought  to  and  from 
the  tribunal  for  several  days  and  allowed  in  their 
prison  nothing  but  bread  and  water ;  yet  still  they 
continued  fixed  in  their  resolutions  of  dying,  and 
encouraged  each  other  in  setting  an  example  of  he- 
roic, or  rather  Christian  fortitude.  At  length, 
however,  the  emperor's  orders  for  their  execution 
arrived,  and  they  were  all  taken  from  prison;  the 
mother  to  be  beheaded,  and  the  sons  whipped  to 
death,  with  cords  loaded  with  plummits  of  lead. 

The  terrible  procession  began  from  the  prison 
gates;  the  mother,  with  a  firm  and  resolute  coun- 
tenance, marched  first,  and  the  sens  followed,  la- 
den with  chains,  and  attended  by  the  execution- 
ers, with  the  instruments  of  death  in  their  hands. 
This  was  a  very  different  procession,  from  that  in 
which  they  had  some  years  before  traversed 
the  streets  of  Rome,  when  they  were  crowned 
•with  garlands,  and  saluted  with  acclamations  in 
every  street.  Yet  those  very  looks  which,  after 
their  return  from  victory,  were  so  modest,  now 
i  assumed  a  noble  majestic  severity ;  and  they 
walked  forward  through  pitying  multitudes — 
their  eyes  directed  to  that  heaven  to  which  these 
honorable  martyrs  were  hastening. 

When  arrived  at  the  place  of  execution,  they 
were  unbound  in  order  to  take  leave  of  each  other; 
and  the  mother,  fondly  hanging  on  the  face  of  her 
eldest  son,  who  was  first  to  undergo  the  torture,  is 
said  to  have  spoken  in  the  following  manner  :  "  I 
L-  thought  myself  once  happy  in  having  so  many 
u  children  to  present  to  my  country,  I  am  now 
"  much  happier  in  having  so  many  to  offer  to  my 
"  God.  lilest,  blest  be  the  day  in  which  you 
"  were  born,  and  the  pangs  which  I  felt  in  bring- 
"  ing  you  into  the  world.  Oh  my  son,  my  sol- 
u  dier,  my  hero,  my  Christian  !  this,  this  is  your 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES. 

"  day  of  triumph;  I  shall  soon  have  more  reason  to 
c*  rejoice  at  your  groans  and  sufferings,  than  when, 
*  crowned  with  conquest  you  triumphantly  ehter- 
t4  ed  the  streets  of  Rome.  As  for  my  own  life, 
1,1  it  is  worn  to  the  very  last  dregs,  and  cannot  be 
•l  an  offering  so  acceptable  to  heaven  as  thine : 
"  persevere  to  the  last,  and  we  shall  in  a  few  mi- 
"  nutos  meet  together,  where  we  shall  fear  no  fu- 
u  ture  disturbance  from  men,  and  no  ingratitude 
"  from  our  country." 

The  executioner  now  began  to  inflict  the  dread- 
ful punishment,  and  the  mother  without  fainting 
or  betraying  the  least  weakness  of  her  sex  con- 
tinued to  look  on.  Januarius  kept  his  eyes  still 
directed  to  heaven,  nor  could  the  severity  of  his 
torture,  nor  the  insults  from  his  executioners 
draw  from  him  a  single  groan.  In  the  same  man- 
ner the  rest  of  her  children  took  leave,  and  even 
the  spectators,  averse  as  they  were  to  the  Chris- 
tians, could  not  refrain  from  shedding  tears  on 
this  horrid  occasion. 

Felicitas  still  looked  on  with  a  steady  and  no- 
ble countenance,  till  it  came  to  the  turn  of  her 
youngest  child,  who,  with  looks  still  blooming 
with  youth  and  beauty  came  to  take  his  last  fare- 
well of  her.  Upon  his  coming  up  to  embrace  her, 
her  spirits  could  no  longer  contain,  but  she  burst 
into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  hung  upon  his  neck  for 
some  time  in  a  transport  of  unspeakable  sorrow. 
At  last  resuming  her  former  fortitude :  "  O 
"  thou,"  said  she,  "  my  all  that  is  now  left  me, 
u  my  youngest  lad,  dear  child,  resist  but  a  few 
"  minutes  and  we  shall  soon  be  together.  I  have 
"  now  but  one  short  pang,  and  all  will  be  over.  All 
"  mankind  are  set  against  us,  and  what  have  we 
"  to  do  amongst  them  ?  No  my  child,  let  us  go  to 
■**  a  place  oi'  endless  rest,  where  the  good  shall 
*'  meet  with  friends  like  themselves,  and  the  wick- 


HISTORICAL   SKETCHES,  95 

"  ed  cannot  intrude  to  molest  us.  Look  upon  the 
"  poor  mangled  bodies  of  your  already  happy 
"  brethren  !  What  is  there  terrible  in  death,  when 
"  attended  with  those  rewards  which  shall  crown 
u  the  righteous  ?  They  are  nov  looking  on,  with 
"  happiness,  upon  us  two  miserable  creatures,  as 
"  we  are,  thus  struggling  under,  thus  loaded  with 
"  earthly  calamity. '* 

When  all  the  sons  were  tortured  to  death,  at 
last  it  came  to  the  matron's  turn  to  suffer;  but 
their  fortitude  seemed  nothing  when  compared  to 
hers  :  she  received  the  stroke  with  greater  looks 
of  joy  than  she  had  ever  before  tescified,  and 
set  the  surviving  world  a  pattern  of  constancy, 
piety,  and  maternal  tenderness. 

St.  Gregory  observes,  that  she  seemed  as  much 
afraid  of  leaving  her  children  in  the  world,  as 
other  parents  are  of  surviving  them, 


BOADICEA. 

THE  first  female  character  in  English  history 
which  draws  our  attention,  is  Boadicea,  queen 
of  the  Iceni,  who,  when  the  emperor  Nero  sent 
Suetonius  to  conquer  England,  then  in  a  state  of 
barbarism,  having  been  treated  ignominiously  by 
the  Romans,  headed  the  Britons  with  undaunted 
spirit,  and  attacked  with  success  several  settle- 
ments of  her  insulting  conquerors.  London, 
which  was  then  a  flourishing  Roman  colony,  was 
reduced  to  ashes,  and  seventy  thousand  of  the 
enemy  were  destroyed.  But  this  carnage  was 
revenged  by  Suetonius  in  a  great  and  decisive 
battle,  where  thirty  thousand  Britons  are  said  to 
have  Derished;  and  Boadicea  herself,  rather  than 


9G  HISTORICAL   SKETCHES* 

fall  into  the  hands  of  the  enraged  victor,  put  an 
end  to  her  own  life  by  poison.. ..It  is  necessary  to 
observe,  thai  as  this  period  was  previous  to  the 
introduction  of  Christianity  into  our  island,  the 
Saxon  religion  did  not  teach  its  followers  to 
suffer  and  submit. 


BERTHA. 

DURING  the  heptarchy,  Ethelbert  king  of 
Kent  married  Bertha,  the  only  daughter  of  Cari- 
bert  king  of  Paris,  one  of  the  descendants  of  Clo- 
vis,  conqueror  of  Gaul ;  but  before  he  was  ad- 
mitted to  this  alliance,  he  was  obliged  to  stipulate 
that  the  princess  should  enjoy  the  free  exercise 
of  her  religion,  which  was  that  of  Christianity.... 
Bertha  brought  over  a  French  bishop  to  the  court 
of  Canterbury,  and  being  zealous  for  the  propa- 
gation of  her  religion,  she  had  been  very  assidu- 
ous in  her  devotional  exercises,  had  supported 
the  credit  of  her  faith  by  an  irreproachable  con- 
duct, and  had  employed  every  art  of  insinuation 
and  address,  to  reconcile  her  husband  to  her  reli- 
gious principles.  Her  popularity  and  influence 
over  Ethelbert  paved  the  way  for  the  reception 
of  the  christian  doctrine  ;  in  a  short  time  it  was 
embraced  by  the  king  and  his  court,  and  the  whole 
nation  by  degrees  followed  his  example.  Every 
woman,  therefore,  who  enjoys  with  gratitude  the 
inestimable  comforts  of  the  gospel,  must  feel  a 
noble  pride  on  reflecting  that  Bertha,  by  her  good 
sense,  mildness  and  propriety  of  conduct,  was  the 
leading  instrument  of  converting  our  ancesto. 
Christianity, 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHESc  97 

PHILIPPA    OF    HAINAULT, 

fi\ueen~co?isort  of  Edward  the  Third.) 

IN  1343,  Edward  the  Third  undertook  thr 
siege  of  Calais,  which  was  defended  by  a  valiant 
knight,  John  de  Vienne.  While  Edward  was  em- 
ployed in  this  siege,  which  lasted  near  twelve 
months,  David,  king  of  Scotland,  taking  advan- 
tage of  the  king's  absence,  entered  Northumber- 
land at  the  head  of  fifty  thousand  men,  and  carri- 
ed his  ravages  and  devastations  to  the  gates  of 
Durham.  Bat  the  queen  assembled  a  body  of  a 
little  more  than  twelve  thousand  men,  which  she 
entrusted  to  the  command  of  lord  Percy,  ven- 
tured to  approach  him  at  Neville's  Cross,  near 
that  city  :  and  riding  through  the  ranks  of  the 
.army,  exhorted  every  man  to  do  his  duty,  and  to 
take  revenge  on  those  barbarous  savages  ;  nor 
could  si?  be  persuaded  to  leave  the  field,  till  the 
armies  were  on  the  point  of  engaging.  The  troops 
animated  by  her  spirit,  broke  the  ranks  of  the 
enemy,  drove  them  off  the  field,  killed  between 
fifteen  and  twenty  thousand,  and  took  the  king 
prisoner.  Philippa  having  secured  her  royal 
captive  in  the  tower,  crossed  the  sea  at  Dover, 
and  was  received  in  the  English  camp,  before 
Calais,  with  all  the  triumph  which  was  due  to 
her  rank,  merit,  and  success.  John  de  Vienne, 
governor  of  Calais,  finding  he  could  no  longer 
resist  the  attack  of  the  enemy,  was  obliged  to  ac- 
cept the  hard  terms  exacted  by  the  conqueror  : 
that  six  of  the  most  considerable  citizens  should 
repair  to  Edward:s  camp  bare-headed  and  bare- 
footed with  ropes  about  their  necks,  carrying  the 
keys  of  the  city  in  their  hands  ;  and  on  these  con- 
siderations, the  king  promised  to  spare  the  lives 
I 


98  HISTORICAL    SKETCHED. 

of  the  remaining  inhabitants.  Incompliance  with 
these  commands,  six  principal  burghers,  whom 
history  has  immortalized,  voluntarily  offered 
themselves,  habited  like  malefactors ;  they  laid 
the  keys  of  the  city  at  Edward's  feet,  and  were 
ordered  to  immediate  execution. 

At  this  instant  a  sound  of  triumph  was  heard 
throughout  the  camp.  The  queen  had  just  ar- 
rived with  a  powerful  reinforcement  of  her  gal- 
lant soldiers. 

Sir  Walter  Mauny  hew  to  receive  her  majes- 
ty, and  briefly  informed  her  of  the  particulars  re- 
specting the  six  victims. 

As  soon  as  she  had  been  welcomed  by  Edward 
and  his  court,  she  desired  a  private  audience. 
My  lord,  said  she,  the  question  I  am  to  enter  up- 
on is  not  touching  the  lives  of  a  few  mechanics  f 
it  respects  a  matter,  more  estimable  than  the  lives 
of  all  the  natives  of  France,-  it  respects  the  ho- 
nour of  the  English  nation,  it  respects  the  glory 
of  my  Edward,  my  husband,  my  king. 

You  think  you  have  sentenced  six  of  your  ene- 
mies to  death.  No,  my  lord,  they  have  sen- 
tenced themselves,  and  their  execution  would  be 
the  execution  of  their  own  orders,  not  the  orders, 
of  Edward. 

They  have  behaved  themselves  worthily  ;  they 
have  behaved  themselves  greatly  ;  I  cannot  but 
respect,  while  I  envy  them,  for  leaving  us  no 
share  in  the  honor  of  this  action,  save  that  of 
granting  a  poor,  an  indispensable  pardon. 

I  admit  they  have  deserved  every  thing  that  is 
evil  at  your  hands.'  They  have  proved  the  most 
inveterate  of  your  enemies.  They  alone  with- 
stood the  rapid  course  of  your  conquests,  and 
have  withheld  from  you  the  crown  to  which  you 
wrere  bom.     Is  it    therefore  that  vou  would    in 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES. 

dulge  their  ambition,  and  enwreath  them  with 
everlasting  glory  ? 

But,  if  such  a  death  would  exalt  mechanics 
over  the  fame  of  the  most  illustrious  heroes,  how 
would  the  name  of  my  Edward,  with  all  his  tri- 
umphs, be  tarnished  !  Would  it  not  be  said  that 
magnanimity  and  virtue  are  grown  odious  in  the 
eyes  of  the  monarch  of  England,  and  that  the 
objects,  whom  he  destines  to  the  punishment  of 
felons,  are  the  very  men  who  deserve  the  esteem 
of  mankind  ?  The  stage  on  which  they  should 
suffer,  would  be  to  them  the  stage  of  honor,  but 
a  stage  of  shame  to  England,  and  indelible  dis- 
grace to  his  name. 

No,  my  lord.  Lit  us  rather  disappoint  these 
burghers,  who  wish  to  invest  themselves  with  glo- 
ry at  our  expense.  We  cannot,  indeed,  wholly 
deprive  them  of  the  merit  of  a  sacrifice  so  nobly 
hitended,  but  we  may  cut  them  short  of  their  de- 
fies ;  in  :he  place  of  that  death  by  which  their 
glory  would  be  consummate,  let  us  bury  them  un- 
der gifts  :  we  shall  thereby  defeat  them  of  that 
popular  opinion  which  never  fails  to  attend  those 
who  suffer  in  the  cause  of  virtue. 

I  am  convinced.:  you  have  prevailed  ;  be  it  so, 
cried  Edward,  prevent  the  executions;  have 
them  instantly  before  us  ! 

They  came  ;  when  the  qunen,  with  an  aspect 
und  accent  diffusing  sweetness,  thus  bespoke 
them.  Natives  of  France,  and  inhabitants  of  Ca- 
lais, ye  have  put  us  to  vast  expense  of  blood  and 
treasure  in  the  recovery  of  our  just  and  natural 
inheritance ;  but  you  acted  up  to  the  best  of  an 
erroneous  judgment,  and  we  admire  in  you  that, 
valour  by  which  we  are  so  long  kept  out  of  out- 
rightful  possessions. 

You  noble  burghers,  you  excellent  citizens! 
though  you  were   ten-fold  our  enemies,  vre  cur. 


100  HISTORICAL    SKETCHES. 

feel  nothing  on  our  part,  save  respect  and  affec- 
tion for  you.  You  have  been  sufficiently  tried. 
We  loose  your  chains  ;  we  snatch  you  from  the 
scaffold  ;  and  we  thank  you  for  that  lesson  of  hu- 
miliation which  you  teach  us,  when  you  shew  us 
that  excellence  is  not  of  blood,  of  title,  or  of  sta- 
tion ;  that  virtue  gives  a  dignity  superior  to  that 
of  kings  ;  and  that  those,  whom  the  Almighty  in- 
forms with  sentiments  like  yours,  are  raised 
above  all  distinctions. 

You  are  free  to  depart  to  your  kinsfolk,  your 
countrymen,  to  all  those  whose  lives  and  liber- 
ties ye  have  so  nobly  redeemed,  provided  you  re- 
fuse not  to  carry  with  you  the  due  token  of  our 
esteem. 

Yet  we  would  rather  bind  you  to  ourselves,  by 
every  endearing  obligation  ;  and  for  this  purpose, 
we  offer  to  you  the  choice  of  the  gifts  and  ho- 
nours, that  Edward  has  to  bestow.  Rivals  for 
fame,  but  always  friends  to  virtue,  we  wish  that 
England  were  entitled  to  call  you  sons. 

"  Ah  my  country,  exclaimed  Saint  Pierre,  (the 
mayor  of  Calais  and  one  of  those  distinguised 
citizens)  it  is  now  that  I  tremble  for  you !  Ed- 
ward could  only  win  your  cities,  but  Philippa  con- 
quers  hearts." 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES,  lOt 


ELEANOR    OF    CASTILE. 

IN  the  year  1290,  Eleanor  of  Castile,  who 
was  married  to  the  prince  of  Wales,  afterwards 
Edward  I.  accompanied  her  husband  in  the 
crusades,  when  he  received  a  wound  which  was 
supposed  to  have  been  made  by  a  poisoned  ar- 
row. Eleanor  immediately  sucked  the  wound, 
that  by  drawing  away  the  poison  from  him  to  her- 
self, she  might  preserve  his  life,  which  was  dearer 
to  her  than  her  own.  Eleanor  did  not  meet 
that  death  which  she  expected,  but  her  name  is 
transmitted  to  posterity,  as  having  felt  the  strong- 
est of  conjugal  attachment.  Thompson  has  this 
beautiful  incident  in  his  tragedy  of  Edward  and 
Eleonora. 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOU 


CONSORT    OF    HENRY   VI. 


MARGARET  of  Anjou,  was  most  probably, 
the  cause  of  raising  the  dreadful  contest  between 
the  houses  of  York  and  Lancaster.  If  she  had 
not  made  Henry's  reign  obnoxious,  he  would  per- 
haps, unmolested,  have  transmitted  the  crown  to 
his  posterity.  But  there  is  almost  in  every  per- 
son something  to  praise,  as  well  as  something  to 
blame  ;  therefore  a  sketch  of  the  various  events 
of  the  life  of  Margaret  is  given,  not  doubting, 
that  the  bad  part  of  her  character  will  be  con- 
demned as  it  deserves,  and  the  worthy  part  ap- 
plauded and  admired. 

On  the  death  of  Henry  V.  in  1422,  his  on- 
ly   sen   Henry  VI.    an  '  infant,   inherited   En g- 


102  HiSTOHlCAX    SKETCHES* 

land  and  the  greater  part  of  France.  During  his 
minority  the  great  virtues  and  talents  of  his  un- 
cle, the  duke  of  Bedford  and  Gloucester,  main- 
tained him  on  the  throne ;  when  he  came  of  age, 
he  was  too  weak  in  his  intellects  to  bear  the 
sveight  of  government ;  and  the  duke  of  Glou= 
tester,  who  had  been  appointed  regent  during  the 
king's  minority,  continued  to  guide  the  realm. — 
A  party,  in  opposition  to  the  duke  of  Gloucester, 
concluded  a  treaty  of  marriage  between  Henry 
and  Margaret  of  Anjou.  She  was  daughter  of 
Rene,  titular  king  of  Naples,  Sicily,  and  Jerusa- 
lem, and  duke  of  Anjou ;  who  with  all  these 
pompous  titles,  was  the  poorest  prince  in  Europe: 
and  though  she  brought  no  accession  of  fortune 
or  territory,  yet  Henry  was  induced  to  purchase 
the  marriage  by  the  cession  of  Maine  and  Anjou 
to  France. 

Margaret  was  the  most  accomplished  princess 
of  the  age,  and  seemed  to  possess  those  talents 
which  would  equally  qualify  her  to  govern,  and 
supply  all  the  weaknesses  and  defects  of  her  hus- 
band. Of  a  masculine  and  enterprising  temper, 
endowed  with  solidity  as  well  as  vivacity  of  un- 
derstanding ;  she  had  displayed  the  power  of  her 
.mind,  even  in  the  privacy  of  her  father's  family  ; 
and  it  was  reasonable  to  expect,  that  when  she 
should  ascend  the  throne,  her  talents  would  break 
out  with  still  superior  lustre. 

On  her  arrival  in  England,  in  1448,  she  endea- 
voured to  acquire  an  entire  ascendency  in  all  po- 
litical affairs.  Grateful  to  the  party  which  had 
raised  her  to  the  throne  ;  she  joined  the  cabal  of 
the  cardinal  of  Winchester,  the  dukes  of  Somer- 
set and  Suffolk,  against  the  duke-  of  Gloucester. 
He  was  a  great  and  generous  character,  as  un* 
suspicious  of  plots  and  conspiracies,  as  he  was-m- 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES.  105 

capable  of  forming  them  against  others  ;  and 
therefore  easily  became  the  dupe  of  the  artifices 
of  his  rivals  lor  power  :  he  was  accused,  arrest- 
ed, confined,  and  as  it  was  supposed  privately 
put  to  death  in  prison.  How  far  Margaret  was 
involved  in  this  dreadful  transaction,  does  not  ap- 
pear from  history  ;  but  it  is  reasonable  to  sup- 
pose, that  a  princess  who  had  not  reached  the. 
twentieth  year  of  her  age,  could  not  be  accessa- 
ry to  the  murder  of  her  husband's  uncle  ;  and  it 
is  probable  that  he  fell  a  victim  to  the  revenge 
and  perfidy  of  his  brother  the  cardinal  of  Win- 
chester, the  most  unprincipled  character  of  that 
barbarous  age.  The  duke  of  Suffolk,  Margaret's 
peculiar  favourite,  succeeded  the  duke  of  Glou- 
cester as  a  prime  minister,  and  became  so  ex- 
tremely obnoxious,  that  an  insurrection  took  place. 
To  appease  the  people,  Suffolk  was  arraigned,  and 
condemned  to  banishment ;  and  in  this  attempt  to 
retire  into  France,  was  seized  and  beheaded,  by 
persons  unknown*  Somerset  succeeded  him,  as 
well -in  the  ministry  and  favour  of  the  queen  as  in 
the  hatred  of  the  nation* 

The  administration  of  Margaret  "became  so 
unpopular,  that  Richard,  duke  of  York,  lineally 
descended  from  Edward  III.  was  induced  to 
advance  his  right  to  the  throne  in  preference  to 
the  house  of  Lancaster,  and  to  come  forward  as 
the  great  leader  of  opposition  to  the  councils  of 
Margaret  :  and  as  the  reigning  king,  always  un- 
fit to  conduct  the  helm  of  government,  was  at 
this  time  seized  with  a  mental  derangement, 
which  increased  his  natural  imbecility,  and  ren- 
dered him  incapable  of  maintaining  even  the  ap- 
pearance of  royalty  ;  the  party  of  the  white  rose 
prevailed  over  the  red  rose  ;  Margaret  yielded 
•to  the  torrent,  and  Richard  was  appointed  pro- 
jector   during  .pleasure.     His  moderation,  how- 


104  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

ever,  in  being  content  with  the  protectorate,  and 
not  seizing  the  crown  when  it  was  within  his 
grasp,  raised  the  hopes  of  the  Lancastrians.  The 
king  recovered  in  a  certain  degree  from  his  in- 
disposition :  Margaret,  eager  to  regain  her  for- 
mer influence,  made  him  resume  the  reins  of  go- 
vernment, released  Somerset  from  the  tower,  and 
dissolved  the  administration  of  the  duke  of  York. 
This  held  measure  gave  birth  to  instant  hostilities, 
and  the  memorable  field  of  St.  Alban's,  in  which 
the  Lancastrian  party  lost  the  day,  was  stained 
with  the  first  blood  in  that  fatal  quarrel  between 
the  rival  houses  of  York  and  Lancaster;  a  quar- 
rel which  continued  during  thirty-six  years,  was 
signalized  by  twelve  pitched  battles,  opened  a 
scene  of  extraordinary  fierceness  and  cruelty,  is 
computed  to  have  cost  the  lives  of  eighty  princes 
of  the  blood,  and  almost  annihilated  the  ancient 
mobility  of  England. 

In  1460,  after  a  variety  of  successes  and  de- 
feats on  both  sides,  the  competitor  of  Henry  was 
slain,  and  Margaret  stained  her  memory  by  gaz- 
ing with  delight  on  his  head,  which  was  fixed  on  a 
pole  over  the  gates  of  York.  His  son  who  pos- 
sessed more  spiait  and  less  scruples  than  his  fa- 
ther, repaired  to  London.  Assisted  by  the  earl 
of  Warwick,  he  was  proclaimed  king,  under  the 
name  of  Edward  the  fourth;  and  after  two  de- 
cided victories  at  Towton  and  Hexham,  appeared 
firmly  established  on  the  throne. 

Trie  fate  of  the  unfortunate  royal  family  af- 
ter these  defeats  was  truly  singular.  Margaret 
flying  with  her  son,  who  was  only  in  the  ninth 
year  of  his  age,  into  a  forest,  was  beset  during  the 
"darkness  of  the  night  by  robbers,  who  despoiled 
her  of  her  rings  and  jewels,  and  treated  her  with 
the  utmost  indignity.     While  the  robbers  were 


HISTORICAL  SKETCHES.  105 

disputing  on  the  division  of  the  spoil,  she  escaped 
with  her  son  into  the  thickest  part  of  the  forest, 
and  wandered  for  some  time,  leading  the  prince 
by  the  hand,  till  exhausted  with  hunger  and  fa- 
tigue, they  sunk  upon  the  ground."  In  this  dread- 
ful situation  she  observed  a  robber  approaching 
with'  his  naked  sword  :  finding  all  escape  impos- 
sible, she  advanced  towards  him,  and  presenting 
the  young  prince,  exclaimed,  u  Behold,  my  friend, 
the  son  of  your  king,  I  commit  him  to  your  pro- 
tection." The  man,  whose  humane  and  generous 
spirit  had  been  obscured,  but  not  entirely  extin- 
guished by  his  vicious  course  of  life,  vowed  to  de- 
vote himself  to  their  security,  concealed  them  in 
the  forest,  and  finally  conducted  them  to  the  sea- 
coast,  from  whence  they  made  their  escape  into 
Flanders.  She  repaired  to  her  father's  court  and 
passed  several  years  in  privacy  and  retirement, 
brooding  over  the  fate  of  her  deposed  husband, 
who  was  confined  in  the  tower. 

In  this  disastrous  state  of  affairs,  Margaret 
was  surprised  by  the  presence  of  the  earl  of 
Warwick,  who  had  hitherto  been  the  devoted 
partisan  of  the  house  of  York,  and  the  inveterate 
enemy  of  the  Lancastrian  party.  This  great  but 
turbulent  nobleman,  from  his  exorbitant  influence 
called  the  king-maker,  had  taken  umbrage  at  Ed4 
ward  the  fourth,  and  offered  his  services  to  rein- 
state Henry  the  sixth.  Margaret  accepted  his 
offer  with  joy  and  gratitude  :  by  her  influence  a 
fleet  and  army  was  procured  in  France;  War- 
wick landed  at  Dartmouth,  drove  Edward  from 
England,  released  Henry  from  the  tower,  into 
which  place  he  had  been  the  chief  cause  of  throw- 
ing him,  and  proclaimed  him  king  with  great  so 
lemnitv. 


rOd  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

During  the  troubles,  Margaret  had  remained 
in  France,  active  in  gaining  assistance  to  restore 
her  husband,  and  extremely  attentive  to  the  edu- 
cation and  instruction  of  her  son.  She  had  set 
him  examples  of  magnanimity,  and  endeavoured 
to  inspire  him  with  that  true  magnanimity  which 
braves  danger.  She  besought  hirn  at  the  same 
time  to  neglect  nothing,  and  to  fear  nothing  that 
•could  lead  to  the  possession  of  a  crown,  which 
heaven  had  given  him  a  right  to  enjoy;  and  to 
comfort  himself  with  the  same  firmness,  if  its  loss 
should  be  found  inevitable.  On  the  news  of 
Warwick's  success,  Margaret  and  her  son  wiere 
hastening  towards  England,  but  were  detained 
by  contrary  winds,  till  a  new  revolution,  no  less 
sudden  than  the  former,  plunged  them  into  great- 
er misery  than  that  from  wh":ch  they  had  just 
emerged.  In  1740,  Edward,  impatient  to  reco- 
ver his  lost  authority,  landed  in  Yorkshire  with  a 
force  net  exceeding  two  thousand  men.;  and  par- 
tisans every  moment  flocked  to  his  standard. 
Warwick  assembled  an  army  at  Leicester,  with 
an  attention  of  giving  battle  to  the  enemy  :  but 
Edwrard  taking  another  road,  passed  him  unmo- 
lested, and  arrived  in  London.  He  was  received 
with  acclamations  in  the  city;  met  the  enemy  at 
Barnet,  and  gained  a  complete  victoiy  over  War- 
wich  who  was  slain  in  the  engagement,  and  Hen- 
ry was  taken  prisoner. 

The  same  day  in  which  this  decisive  battle  was 
fought,  queen  Margaret  and  her  son,  now  a  pro- 
mising youth  about  eighteen  years  of  age,  arrived 
at  Weymouth.  On  receiving  intelligence  of  her 
husband's  captivity,  and  of  the  death  of  the  earl 
of  Warwick,  her  courage  under  so  many  trying 
circumstances,  did  not  yet  forsake  her,  and  she 
still  determined  to  defend  to  the  utmost  the  ruins 


HISTORICAL  SKETCHES.  10? 


s* 


6i  her  fallen  fortunes.  But  her  last  attempt  was 
annihilated  by  the  bloody  defeat  at  Tewkesbury, 
and  she  was  almost  a  melancholy  witness  to  the: 
butchery  of  her  only  son.  Margaret  and  her  son- 
were  taken  prisoners,  and  brought  to  the  king ; 
the  young  prince  being  asked  in  a  most  insulting- 
manner,  how  he  dared  to  invade  England,  more 
mindful  of  his  high  birth  than  of  his  present  for- 
tune, boldly  replied,  u  I  came  hither  to  recover 
-ny  father's  kingdom."  The  ungenerous  Edward, 
irritated  by  this  reply,  and  insensible  to  pity, 
smote  him  on  the  face  with  his  gauntlet,  and  his 
attendants  taking  the  blow  as  a  signal  for  far- 
ther violence,  dispatched  him  with  their  dag- 
gers. 

From  this  dreadful  scene,  Margaret  was  con- 
veyed to  the  tower,  and  in  a  few  days  her  un- 
paralleled misfortunes  were  finally  aggravated  by 
the  account  of  Henry's  death,  who  was  supposed 
to  have  been  privately  murdered.  She  remained 
in  prison  till  1475,  in  which  year  a  treaty  between 
the  kings  of  France  and  England  stipulated  her 
liberty ;  and  Edward,  in  delivering  Margaret 
from  her  confinement,  exhorted  her  to  enjoy  her 
Freedom  with  tranquility.  A  solitary  imprison- 
ment of  five  years,  which  succeeded  to  a  variety 
of  numerous  calamities,  had  given  such  a  turn  to 
her  temper,  that  there  was  little  occasion  for  this 
exhortation. 

History  is  silent  in  regard  to  a  woman,  whose 
.nod  a  few  years  before  could  pacify  or  convulse 
England.  She  resided  with  her  father  till  his 
death,  which  happened  in  14S0,  and  followed  him 
to  the  grave  in  1482  in  the  fifty-third  year  of  her 
age.  This  princess,  who  had  been  so  active  on 
the  stage  of  the  world,  and  who  had  experienced 
such  a  variety  of  misfortunes,  was  more  illustri- 


108  HISTORICAL  SKETCHED 

ous  for  her  undaunted  spirit  in  adversity,  than  for 
her  moderation  in  prosperity.  She  seems  neither 
to  have  possessed  the  virtues,  nor  been  subject  to 
#the  weaknesses  of  her  sex,  and  was  as  much 
tainted  by  the  ferocity,  as  endowed  with  the  cou- 
rage, of  that  barbarous  age  in  which  she  lived. 
But  if  there  is  a  valuable  lesson  to  be  drawn 
from  her  history,  it  is  chiefly  from  that  marvel- 
lous vigour  of  mind  which  made  her  suddenly 
pass  from  the  lowest  extremes  of  debasement  and 
consternation  to  the  noblest  resolution  and  the 
most  heroic  enterprize. 


LADY  ELIZABETH  GRAY. 

WHEN  Edward  the  fourth  was  established  on 
the  throne  by  the  captivity  of  Henry  the  sixth, 
being  desirous  of  ensuring  the  friendship  of 
X'rance,  he  dispatched  in  1464,  the  earl  of  War- 
wich  to  Paris,  to  demand  in  marriage  the  prin- 
cess Bona  of  Savoy,  sister  of  Charlotte,  queen 
of  Louis  the  eleventh.  His  proposals  were  ac- 
cepted ;  the  treaty  was  concluded ;  and  nothing 
was  wanting  to  complete  the  espousals  but  the 
ratification  of  the  terms,  and  the  arrival  of  the 
princess  in  England.  But  while  policy  was  act- 
ing abroad,  love  on  a  sudden  changed  the  whole 
scene  at  home. 

Elizabeth,  daughter  of  the  dutchess  of  Bed- 
ford, by  a  second  marriage  with  Sir  Walter  Wid- 
ville,  was  remarkable  for  the  grace  and  beauty  of 
her  person ;  she  had  married  Sir  John  Gray,  to 
whom  she  bore  several  children.  Her  husband 
being  killed  as  fighting  on  the  side  of  the  house  of 
Lancaster,  and  his  estates  being  confiscated,  his 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES.  109 

widow  retired  to  her  father's  seat  at  Grafton  in 
Northamptonshire,  and  was    involved   in    great 
distress.     At  this  period,  Edward  the  Fourth  be- 
ing on  a  hunting  party,  paid  an  accidental  visit  to 
the  Dutchess  of  Bedford.     He  was  a  prince  who 
excelled  in  beauty  of  person  and  dignity   of  ad- 
dress ;  no  less  renowned  in  feats  of  gallantry  than 
in  deeds  of  arms ;  and   possessed  a  heart  easily 
susceptible  of  soft  impressions.       The    occasion 
seemed  favorable  ;  the  young  widow  flung  her- 
self at  his  feet,  and  with   many   tears    intreated 
him  to  take  pity  on  her    impoverished    and    dis- 
tressed children.  The  sight  of  so  much  beauty  in 
affliction  strongly  affected  Edward ;  love  stole  in- 
sensibly into  his  heart  under  the  guise  of  compas- 
sion, and  her  sorrow,  so  becoming  a  virtuous  ma- 
tron, made  his  esteem  and   regard    quickly   cor- 
respond with  his  affection.      He  raised  her  from 
the  ground  with  assurances  of  favour  ;    he  found 
his  passion  increase  every  moment  by  the  conver- 
sation of  the  amiable  object ;  and  he  was  soon  re- 
duced in  his  turn  to   the  posture    and  style   of  a 
suppliant  at  the  feet  of  Elizabeth.      But  the  lady 
disdainfully  repulsed   her  royal    lover,   declaring 
that  although  she  knew  herself  unworthy  to  be   a 
queen,  yet  she  valued  her  honor  and  person  more 
than  to  be  the  greatest  prince's  concubine  ;    and 
all  the  endearments  and    caresses  of  the   young 
and  amiable  monarch  proved  fruiriess  against  her 
rigid  and  inflexible  virtue.   At  length,  his  passion 
irritated  by  opposition,  and  encreasing  by  venera- 
tion for  such  honorable  sentiments,  he   icsolved 
to  share  his  throne  as   well   as  his  heart,  with   a 
woman,  whose  beauty  cf  person  and    dignity  of 
character  rendered  her  worthy  of  both.     On  the 
£rst  of  May  1664  the  marriage  was  privately  ce- 
lebrated at  Grafton. 


HO  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

It  has  been  asserted  that  Warwick  deemed 
himself  affronted  at  the  breach  of  the  treaty  of 
marriage  and  on  his  recall,  retired  from  court 
in  disgust,  and  joined  the  Lancastrian  party.  But 
this  account  has  been  recently  shown  to  be  false 
by  Henry,  in  his  history  of  Britain,  who  pro- 
ved from  unquestionable  evidence,  that  in  Sep- 
tember 1664,  when  Edward  declared  his  marri- 
age, the  earl  of  Warwick  himself  assisted  in 
leading  Elizabeth  to  the  abbey  church  at  Reading, 
and  in  publickly  declaring  her  queen ;  that  he 
likewise  stood  godfather  to  the  princess  Elizabeth, 
of  whom  the  queen  was  delivered  in  February 
1445  ;  and  received  many  honors  and  appointments 
from  Edwardsubsequent  to  his  return  from  France. 

In  fact,  Elizabeth  undoubtedly  occasioned  the 
defection  of  the  earl  of  Warwick,  but  from  ano- 
ther cause.  Her  relations  by  whom  she  was  im- 
plicitly governed  deriving  influence  from  her  ele- 
vation, monopolized  the  powers  and  principal  of- 
fices of  state,  and  endeavoured  to  remove  from 
court  all  persons  who  had  any  influence  over  the 
king.  On  their  representations^  Elizabeth  infus- 
ed jealousies  into  the  mind  of  her  husband,  and 
gradually  estranged  him  from  the  earl  of  War- 
wick, to  whom  Edward  principally  owed  his  ele- 
vation. The  earl's  haughty  and  unbending  spirit 
could  not  brook  to  see  such  honour  bestowed  on 
the  queen's  relations  ;  and  was  more  particularly 
irritated  against  them,  from  a  conviction  that 
they  were  ardently  endeavouring  to  diminish 
the  wealth,  power,  and  influence  of  his  family 
in  order  to  increase  their  own.  Elizabeth  and 
her  relations  raised  also  the  resentment  of  the 
king's  brother  the  duke  of  Clarence.  He  thought 
himself  neglected  by  the  king,  and  imputed  that 
neglect  to  the  influence  of  the  queen,  united  him- 


HISTORICAL  SKETCHES.  Ill 

•5,eli  to  Warwick  by  marrying  his  eldest  daughter. 
This  marriage  was  soon  followed  by  an  open  re- 
bellion, by  the  ascendency  of  the  Lancastrian 
party,  the  flight  of  Edward,  and  the  temporary 
restoration  o£  Henry  the  sixth.  Elizabeth,  the 
cause  of  all  these  revolutions,  seeing  the  king  had 
and  with  him  all  hopes  of  safety,  and  aU 
friends  vanishing  with  prosperity,  retired  private- 
ly from  the  lower  at  midnight  ;  and  with  her 
daughter  and  a  few  faithful  friends,  took  shelter  in 
ihe  sanctuary  of  Westminster.  In  this  melan- 
choly abode,  she  was  delivered,  on  the  fourth  of 
November  1470,  of  her  eldest  son,  the  unfortu- 
nate Edward,  whose  birth  while  his  mother  was 
in  a  state  of  seclusion  from  the  world,  seemed  a 
prophetic  prelude  to  his  fatal  catastrophe. — 
From  this  distress  Elizabeth  was  relieved  by  the 
triumphant  restoration  and  return  of  Edward  the 
fourth ;  and  her  misfortunes  seemed  only  to  have 
overtaken  her  to  render  her  power  still  greater, 
and  the  influence  of  her  family  more  conspicuous 
than  ever.  Her  ambition,  inflamed  by  the  tem- 
porary degradation,  exacted  from  her  doating 
husband  continued  marks  Gf  favour  and  distinc- 
tion. But  the  mind  of  Elizabeth  was  not  so  wrap- 
ed  by  ambition  or  steeled  by  resentment,  as 
to  forget  the  sentiments  of  benevolence  and  pity, 
on  Edward's  recovery  of  the  throne.  When 
queen  Margaret  was  committed  to  the  tower,  it 
was  judged  expedient,  from  her  well  known  spi- 
rit of  intrigue,  to  deny  her  the  privilege  of  see- 
ing or  holding  correspondence  with  any  of  her  re- 
lations or  partizans,  Pllizabeth  had  felt  the  vicis- 
itudes  of  fortune,  and  schooled  in  adversity, 
znight  say,  with  the  poet, 

"  What  Borrow  was,  thou  badst  her  know, 

And  from  her  own  she  learnt  to  melt  at  others  w«e.*' 


112  HISTORICAL    SKETCHES. 

She  accordingly  exerted  her  influence  over  Ed- 
ward in  favour  of  Margaret,  and  obtained  her 
the  permission  of  seeing  a  few  friends,  and  ac- 
quiring her  such  other  indulgences  as  might  in 
some  measure  mitigate  the  rigours  of  imprison- 
ment. 

Happy  for  herself  and  children  had  it  been,  if 
Elizabeth  had  always  humanely  interfered  in  fa- 
vour of  the  unfortunate  ;  and  if,  incited  by  her  re- 
lations, she  had  not  assisted  in  urging  Edward 
to  a  deed  of  cruelty,  which  proved  fatal  to  her 
own  family.  Clarence,  who  had  been  restored 
to  favour  by  a  defection  from  the  Earl  of  War- 
wick, and  had  a  principal  share  in  the  total  defeat 
of  the  Lancastrians,  and  the  restoration  of  Edward 
had  never  been  sufficiently  rewarded  for  these 
important  services.  His  conduct  in  espousing 
the  daughter  of  the  earl  of  Warwick,  the  great 
enemy  of  the  house  of  York,  in  suffering  him- 
self to  be  declared  prince  of  Wales  and  successor 
to  Henry  the  sixth,  left  lasting  impressions  on 
Edward's  mind,  not  to  be  effaced  by  his  subse- 
quent treachery  to  Warwick  and  Henry.  The 
displeasure  and  jealousy  of  the  king  were  so  fo- 
mented by  the  queen  and  her  relations  j  and  it 
was  principally  at  their  suggestion,  that  the  weak 
and  imprudent  Clarence,  was  tried  for  high  trea- 
son, and  executed  ;  that  his  son,  the  earl  of  War- 
wick was' attainted,  his  fortune  confiscated,  and 
several  of  Clarence's  estates  granted  to  the  earl  of 
Rivers,  the  queen's  brother,  under  the  hypocri- 
tical pretence,  that  it  would  be  an  advantage  to 
his  soul  after  death,  that  his  estates  would  be 
possessed  by  a  man  whom  he  had  so  much  injur- 
ed during  his  life. 

Aidiough  Richard  duke  of  Gloucester,  shared 
in  the  imputation  of  co-operating  in  the  ruin  of 


HISTORICAL  SKETCHES.  lit 

Clarence,  yet  that  artful  prince  contrived  to 
throw  the  principal  blame  on  the  queen  and  her 
relations,  and  thus  increased  their  unpopularity. 
Violent  disputes  took  place  between  them  and  the 
great  officers -of  the  court  ;  and  though  Edward 
on  his  death-bed,  apparently  effected  a  reconcilia- 
tion, as  the  only  means  of  securing  the  quiet  suc- 
cession to  his  son,  yet  this  reconciliation  was  on- 
ly feigned,  and  on  the  king's  decease  both  parties 
strove  to  secure  the  person  of  the  young  mo- 
narch, and  with  it  the  administration   of  affairs. 

The  party  of  Elizabeth  had  taken  every  precau- 
tion for  this  purpose.  Her  brother,  earl  Rivers, 
was  appointed  governor  ;  Richard  lord  Grey, 
her  son  by  her  first  husband,  had  a  distinguished 
place  in  his  household  ;  her  eldest  son,  lately 
created. the  marquis  of  Dorset,  was  made  govern- 
or of  the  tower,  and  by  that  means  was  in  posses- 
ion of  the  arms  and  treasure  ,*  and  the  queen  in- 
stantly sent  orders  to  escort  the  young  king  to 
London  with  a  train  of  two  thousand  horse.  But 
these  very  precautions  hastened,  if  they  did  not 
occasion  the  ruin  of  her  family,  and  the  dethrone- 
ment of  her  son. 

The  party  in  opposition  to  the  queen  was  chief- 
ly headed  by  lord  Hastings  and  the  duke  of  Buck- 
ingham, who  dreaded  the  power  vested  in  the 
Jiands  of  her  family;  and  Richard,  duke  of  Glou- 
cester, who,  as  first  prince  of  the  blood,  was  by 
the  laws  of  the  kingdom  entitled  to  the  regency, 
conceived  suspicions,  that  the  queen  intended  to 
exclude  him  from  the  administration,  and  to  go- 
vern in  concert  with  her  own  family. 

While  Elizabeth  was  endeavouring  in  London 
to  encrease  her  party,  she  received  the  alarming 
intelligence,  that  her  brother,  earl  Rivers,  her  son 
lord  Richard  Grey,  and  the  other  officers  of  the 


114  HISTORICAL  SfcETCftESr 

household,  were  seized  at  Stoney  Stratford,  where 
the  king  was  arrived  in  his  way  to  London;  that 
all  his  attendants  were  dismissed,  and  a  procla- 
mation published  expelling  them  from  court :  that 
the  person  of  young  Edward  was  likewise  secur- 
ed :  and  that  the  duke  of  Gloucester,  just  return- 
ing from  a  successful  expedition  against  the  Scots, 
after  having  proclaimed  his  nephew,  king  Edward 
the  fifth,  and  making  the  strongest  professions  of 
loyalty  and  respect,  was  accompanying  his  royal 
charge  to  London.  On  the  first  news  of  these 
alarming  transactions,  Elizabeth  took  sanctuary 
in  Westminster,  with  her  second  son  the  duke  o( 
York,  and  her  five  daughters.  She  trusted  that 
the  ecclesiastical  privileges  which  had  formerly 
afforded  her  protection  against  the  Lancastrian 
oarty,  would  not  be  violated  by  her  brother-in 
jaw,  while  her  son  was  seated  on  the  throne ;  and 
she  resolved  there  to  'await  the  return  of  better 
fortune. 

Meanwhile  Richard  accompanied  the  king  tc 
London,  riding  bare-headed  before  him,  and  re- 
peatedly called  to  the  people,  a  Behold  your 
king,"  conducted  him  in  triumph  to  the  tower  of 
London.  He  was  declared  protector  by  the 
council  of  state,  and  issued  orders  for  the  corona- 
tion of  the  young  king.  His  immediate  acces- 
sion to  power  was  stained  with  the  execution  of 
carl  Rivers,  lord  Richard  Grey,  and  lord  Hast- 
ings ;  because  those  noblemen  were  likely  to  op- 
pose his  designs  on  the  crown.  Before  the  queen 
was  made  acquainted  with  those  scenes  of  hor- 
ror, Richard,  anxious  to  secure  the  person  of  the 
duVe  of  York,  deputed  the  two  archbishops  of 
Canterbury  and  York,  and  several  lords  of  the 
council,  to  represent  to  the  queen  her  ill-ground- 
ed apprehensions.,  and  the  necessity  of  the  y^\ri£ 


HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

prince's  appearance  at  the  ensuing  coronation  of 
his  brother. 

The  deputies  found  the  unhappy  queen  sur 
rounded  by  her  weeping  children  sitting  on  the 
floor,  bathed  in  tears  and  bewailing  the  approach- 
ing destruction  of  herself  and  family.  The  two 
.prelates  were  known  to  be  persons  of  integrity 
and  honour,  and  being  themselves  persuaded  Oi 
the  sincerity  of  the  duke's  intentions,  they  em- 
ployed every  argument  accompanied  with  zeal- 
ous entreaties,  exhortations  and  assurances,  to 
bring  Elizabeth  over  to  the  same  opinion.  She 
persevered  in  her  resolution  for  a  great  length  of 
time,  and  urged  that  the  duke,  by  continuing 
svithin  those  sacred  walls,  was  not  only  secure 
himself,  but  also  gave  security  to  the  king,  whose 
life  no  one  would  dare  attempt  while  his  succes- 
sor and  avenger  remained  in  safety.  But,  finding 
that  no  one  supported  her  in  her  sentiments,  and 
thai  force  in  case  of  refusal,  was  threatened  by 
^he  council,  she  at  length  complied.  On  present- 
ing her  son,  she  said  to  hiin,  u  Farewell,  my  sweet 
oon,  the  almighty  be  thy  protector  !  let  me  kiss 
ihee  once  more  before  we  part,  for  God  knows 
when  we  shall  kiss  again  !"  Having  embraced 
him,  she  bedewed  his  cheeks  with  tears,  blessed 
him,  and  then  went  away,  leaving  the  child  with 
lords,  weeping  also  for  her  departure. 

The  protector  had  no  sooner  secured  the  per- 
son of  the  duke  of  York,  than  he  manifested  his 
design -of  seizing  the  crown.  The  queen  and  her 
family  were  so  obnoxious  to  the  nobility,  and  so 
odious  to  the  nation  in  general,  that  he  found 
little  difficulty  in  affecting  his  purpose,  by  a  most 
improbable  and  dishonourable  falsity.  ,  His  emis- 
saries asserted,  that  Edward  the  fourth,  before 
his  marriage  with  the  lady   Grey,  had.  secretly 


116  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

espoused  lady  Elizabeth  Talbot,  widow  of  lord 
Butler,  and  daughter  of  the  earl  of  Shrewsbury. 
This  idle  tale  was  believed  ;  his  marriage  with 
Elizabeth  was  declared  illegal,  and  Richard  as- 
sumed the  crown.  The  deposed  monarch  and  his 
brother  were  confined  in  the  tower,  and  murder- 
ed by  the  orders  of  the  usurper.  The  estates  of 
the  queen-mother  were  confiscated,  and  that  un- 
fortunate princess,  reduced  to  poverty  and  over- 
whelmed with  disgrace,  had  no  other  alternative 
than  to  leave  the  sanctuary,  and  put  herself  and 
her  five  daughters  into  the  hands  of  the  usurper 
of  her  son's  throne.  Richard  took  a  solemn  oath 
in  the  house  of  peers,  that  they  should  be  in  no 
danger  of  their  lives,  that  he  would  allow  her 
seven  hundred  marks  a  year,  give  to  each  of  her 
daughters  a  portion  of  two  hundred  marks,  and 
marry  them  to  gentlemen. 

Thus  reduced  to  the  state  of  a  private  gentle- 
woman, Elizabeth  looked  forward  with  hopes  to 
.the  preparations  of  the  earl  of  Richmond,  and 
promised  to  bestow  her  eldest  daughter  Elizabeth 
on  him  who  was  considered  as  chief -of  the  Lan- 
caster party.  But  while  she  was  secretly  abet- 
ting this  plot  against  the  usurper,  Richard,  well 
aware  that  the  whole  success  of  Richmond's  plan 
depended  on  his  marriage  with  the  princess,  and 
being  a  widower  by  the  death  of  his  wife  Anne* 
formed  the  designs  of  defeating  the  scheme  of  his 
enemies,  by  espousing  his  niece  Elizabeth  ;  and 
as  kings, court  the  fair  with  great  advantage,  and 
the  lustre  of  a  crown  is  apt  to  dazzle  the  bright- 
est eyes  ;  both  the  young  princess  and  the  queen 
her  mother  consented  to  this  unnatural  alliance 
with  a  man,  who  had  done  them  the  most  cruel 
injuries,  but  now  enticed  them  by  the  most  tempt- 
ing promises.     The  queen  communicated  the  de- 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES.  11/ 

sign  to  her  son  the  Marquis  of  Dorset,  who  was 
at  Paris  with  the  earl  of  Richmond,  and  intreat- 
ed  him  to  return  to  England  to  receive  the  ho- 
nours that  had  been  promised  him  by  Richard. — 
This  conduct  cannot  be  justified,  unless  we  sup- 
pose, what  is  not  improbable,  that  Elizabeth,  in 
whose  cabinet  was  first  laid  the  plan  of  the  great 
confederacy,  which  overthrew  the  throne  of 
Richard,  deceived  the  king  by  false  promies,  and 
was  continuing  her  negotiations  with  the  earl  of 
Richmond,  and  urging  him  to  hasten  his  invasion 
at  the  moment  she  affected  to  accept  the  alli- 
ance of  Richard.  Richmond,  alarmed  with  the 
news  of  this  intended  marriage,  hastened  his  pre- 
parations ;  landed  in  England,  and  being  joined 
by  numerous  bodies,  who  flocked  to  his  standard 
from  all  parts,  he  defeated  and  killed  Richard  at 
the  battle  of  Bosworth-field,  and  seated  himself 
on  the  throne,  under  the  name  of  Henry  the  se- 
venth. 

Elizabeth  seemed  now  to  have  attained  the 
height  of  human  felicity.  She  saw  the  man  who 
had  injured  her  own  honour,  usurped  her  son's 
throne,  and  murdered  her  family,  dethroned  by 
the  earl  of  Richmond,  who  had  promised  to  mar- 
ry her  daughter,  and  by  uniting  the  two  roses,  she 
gave  peace  and  tranquillity  to  her  districted 
country,  so  long  torn  to  pieces  by  civil  discord. 

But  the  chagrin  of  Elisabeth  was  only  to  be 
terminated  with  her  life.  Instead  of  expressing 
gratitude  to  Elizabeth,  for  having  first  laid  the 
plan  of  the  greatest  confederacy,  to  which  he  ow- 
ed his  elevation ;  the  gloomy  and  malignant  Hen- 
ry never  forgave  her  consent  to  the  alliance  with 
Richard,  and  treated  her  with  coolness: 
serve.  Unwilling  to  appear  as  if  he  owed 
r.rown  to  his  marriage    with  the  heircs^   of  the 


with 
d  >ir, 


118  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

house  of  York  he  delayed  two  years  the  ceie- 
bration  of  that  ceremony.  The  general  joy  which 
his  subjects  testified  at  his  marriage,  filled  him 
with  displeasure.  His  suspicions  disturbed  his 
tranquillity,  bred  disgust  towards  his  queen,  poi- 
soned all  his  domestic  enjoyments  ;  and  the  ma- 
lignant ideas  of  party,  prevailed  in  his  sullen 
mind  over  ail  the  sentiments  of  gratitude  to  the 
queen-dowager,  and  affection  towards  his  virtu- 
ous and  obsequious  consort. 

The  queen- dowager  seeing  her  daughter  treat- 
<A  with  severity,  herslf  excluded  from  the  small- 
est share  of  authority,  her  friends  in  disgrace, 
and  her  party  persecuted,  conceived  against  Hen- 
ry the  most  violent  resentment.  As  she  was  pre- 
paring again  to  discover  that  character  of  ambi- 
tion and  intrigue  which  she  had  betrayed  during 
the  reign  of  her  husband,  and  the  usurpation  of 
Richard,  she  was  suddenly  arrested  and  impri- 
soned in  the  abbey  of  Bermondsey.  In  excuse 
for  so  arbitrary  an  act,  it  was  alleclged  that  not- 
withstanding a  secret  agreement  to  many  her 
daughter  to  Henry,  she  had  yielded  to  the  solici- 
tations and  menaces  of  Richard,  and  delivered 
that  princess  and  her  sister  into  the  hands  of  the 
tyrant.  This  crime,  if'such  it  could  be  called, 
now  become  obsolete,  was  supposed  not  to  be 
the  real  cause  of  the  severity  with  which  she  was 
treated  ;  and  it  was  credited,  or  at  least  Henry 
himself  believed,  that  she  secretly  countenanced 
the  report  that  the  duke  of  York  had  escaped 
from  the  tower,  and  that  she  abetted  the  impos- 
ture of  Lambert  Simmel,  who  personated  the  earl 
of  Warwick,  and  was  publicly  proclaimed  king 
:  Dublin,  under  the  name  of  Edward  the  sixth. 
se  suspicions  were  afterwards  the  more  con- 
fir  ore  ch   when  it  was  found  that  the  unfortunate 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES.  119 

queen-dowager,  though  she  survived  this  disgrace 
several  years,  was  never  treated  with  more  lenity  : 
her  large  estates  were  confiscated,  and  she  end- 
ed her  life,  which  had  been  chequered  with  such 
various  fortunes,  (as  lord  Bacon  in  his  life  of  Hen- 
ry the  seventh  savs,)  "  in  prison,  poverty,  and  so- 
litude." 

The  merit  of  Elizabeth  consisted  in  her  pru- 
dent and  virtuous  conduct  towards  Edward  be- 
fore she  became  his  wife  ;  in  her  compliance  with 
his  temper  after  marriage,  and  patience  under  his 
numerous  infidelities  ;  in  her  humanity  towards 
the  dethroned  queen  Margaret ;  and  in  the  emi- 
nent protection  she  afforded  to  literature  by  found- 
ing Queen's  College,  in  the  university  of  Cam- 
bridge. Her  principal  defects  were  a  restless 
ambition,  and  too  great  a  partiality  to  her  rela- 
tions, which  was  the  cause  of  all  her  misfortunes. 


V' 


CATHARINE   OF  ARRAGON, 

£LTEEN-CONSORT    OF     HENRY    THE    EIGHTH. 

IF  any  woman  could  ever  derive  elevation  of 
mind,  from  high  birth  and  dignity  of  connections, 
that  woman  was  Catharine  of  Arragon  : — Her 
lather  Ferdinand  was  king  of  Arragon,  Naples, 
and  Sicily  :  her  mother  Isabella  was  queen  of 
Castile  ;  and  her  nephew,  so  well  known  under 
the  name  of  Charles  the  fifth,  was  emperor  of 
Germany. 

Catharine  was  born  1485,  and  before  she  had 
attained  the  age  of  sixteen,  married  Arthur,  prince 
of  Wales,  who  was  scarcely  fifteen,  and  in  less 
than  half  a  year  became  a  widow. 


220  HISTORICAL    SKE1L1 

In  1502,  by  means  of  a  dispensation  from  the 
Pope,  she  was  betrothed  to  Henry,  the  brother  of 
Arthur,  then  only  twelve  years  of  age.  .  This 
match  was  so  contrary  to  the  inclination  of  the 
young  prince,  that  he  did  not  agree  to  it,  till  he 
was  compelled  by  the  positive  commands  of  his 
father,  Henry  the  seventh,  whose  avarice  ren- 
dered him  averse  to  return  so  considerable  a 
dowry  as  Catharine  had  brought  into  the  king- 
dom. 

But  as  the  nation  in  general  was  prejudiced 
against  the  marriage  of  such  near  connections, 
the  king,  though  he  had  been  so  eager  to  have  the 
espousals  solemnized,  gave  evident  proofs  of  his 
intention  to  annul  them.  He  ordered  the  young- 
prince,  as  soon  as  he  came  of  age,  to  enter  a  pro- 
testation against  the  marriage  ;  and  on  his  death- 
bed he  charged  him,  as  his  last  injunction,  not 
to  finish  so  unlawful  an  alliance. 

At  the  accession  of  Henry  the  eighth,  a  coun* 
cil  was  summoned  to  deliberate  on  this  momen- 
tous affair.  On  the  cne  hand  her  former  mar- 
riage with  the  king's  brother,  and  the  inequality 
of  their  years,  were  strong  objections.  On  the 
other,  the  propriety  of  the  match  was  supported 
by  Catharine's  known  virtue,  mild  temper,  and 
affection  to  the  king,  by  the  necessity  of  return- 
ing her  large  dowry,  by  the  expediency  of  fulfill- 
ing the  engagements  of  the  late  king,  and  the 
dread  of  offending  two  such  powerful  sovereigns 
as  Ferdinand  and  Isabella ;  whose  alliance,  in  case 
of  a  rupture  with  France,  was  of  so  great  impor- 
tance. Henry  followed  the  advice  of  his  coun- 
cil, and  solemnized  the  marriage.  Her  person 
being  handsome,  and  her  manner  agreeable, 
Henry  behaved  to  her  witjl  affection  ;  and  as  she 
possessed  sound  judgment,  he  treated  her  with 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES.  121 

such   confidence,  that  during  an  expedition  into 
France  he  appointed  her  agent. 

The  king  had  thus  for  eighteen  years  lived  up- 
on terms  of  affection  with  his  virtuous  queent 
without  feeling  the  smallest  scruples  on  the  vali- 
dity of  the  marriage,  or  giving  any  outward 
mark  of  unkindness,  when  suddenly  his  consci- 
ence smote  him  with  remorse.  Many  other  res 
sons,  however,  besides  religious  scruples,  made 
him  weary  of  this  match,  and  induced  him  to 
form  another  connection.  The  queen  being  six 
years  older  than  the  king,  the  decay  of  her  beau- 
ty, together  with  her  ill  health,  had  contributed, 
notwithstanding  her  blameless  character,  to  ren- 
der her  person  unacceptable.  Though  she  had 
borne  him  several  children,  they  all  died  in  early 
infancy,  except  the  princess  Mary  ;  and  it  was 
apprehended  that  should  doubts  of  Mary's  legi- 
timacy be  combined  with  the  weakness  of  her 
sex,  the  country  might  again  be  thrown  into  con- 
fusion. 

The  evils  of  civil  convulsions,  as  yet  recent, 
arising  from  a  disputed  succession,  made  a  deep 
impression  on  the  minds  of  the  people,  and  ren- 
dered them  universally  desirous  of  any  event, 
which  might  obviate  so  dreadful  a  calamity. 

But  his  affection  for  Anne  Boleyn,  was  a  still 
more  forcible  reason,  and  concurring  with  private 
disgust  and  motives  of  public  interest,  impelled 
him  to  seek  the  dissolution  of  his  inauspicious, 
and,  as  it  was  esteemed  by  many,  unlawful  mar- 
riage with  Catharine. 

Henry  therefore  applied  to  the  sec  of  Rome 
for  a  divorce  :  Clement  the  seventh,  seemed  in- 
clined to  favour  the  king's  suit,  Prid  appointed  a 
commission,  consisting  of  cardinal  Campegio  on 
the  side  of  the  pope,  and  cardinal  "YVolsey  on  the 
3ide  of  Henry,  for  the  trial  Of  the  marriage. 


122  HISTORICAL  SKFTCHES. 

Catharine  herself,  was  naturally  of  a  firm  and 
resolute  temper,  and  was  engaged  by  every  mo- 
tive to  persevere  in  protesting  against  the  mea- . 
sure.  The  reluctance  of  yielding  to  her  rival,  who 
had  supplanted  her  in  the  king's  affection,  excited 
the  most  poignant  affliction  ;  the  imputation  of 
incest,  which  was  thrown  upon  her  marriage  with 
Henry,  struck  her  with  the  highest  indignation ; 
and  the  dread  of  her  daughter  being  declared  il- 
legitimate, awakened  the  feelings  of  a  mother.-— 
Actuated  by  these  considerations,  she  prevailed 
on  Charles  the  fifth  to  intercede  with  the  pope  in 
her  favour,  and  to  insist  that  the  cause  should 
be  referred  to  Rome,  where  alone  she  thought 
she  could  expect  justice. 

Meanwhile  the  two  legates  opened  their  court 
at  London,  and  cited  the  king  and  queen  to  ap- 
pear. They  both  presented  themselves,  and  the 
king  answered  to  his  name  when  called  ;  but  Ca- 
tharine instead  of  answering  to  her's,  rose  from 
her  seat  and  throwing  herself  at  Henry's  feet,  made 
a  very  pathetic  harangue,  which  her  virtue,  dig- 
nity, and  misfortunes  rendered  uncommonly  af- 
fecting. She  told  him,  "  that  she  was  a  stranger 
in  his  dominions,  without  protection,  without 
council,  and  without  assistance ;  exposed  to  all  the 
injustice  which  her  enemies  were  disposed  to  im- 
pose upon  her  ;  that  she  had  quitted  her  native 
country,  without  other  resources  than  her . connec- 
tions with  him  and  his  family  ;  and  expected, 
that  instead  of  suffering  any  violence  or  indignity, 
she  should  find  an  assylum  ;  that  she  had  been 
his  wife  during  twenty  years,  and  now  appealed 
to  him  in  the  face  of  the  public,  whether  her 
affectionate  submission  to  his  will  had  not  merited 
other  treatment  than  to  be  thus  thrown  from  him 
•-vith  so    much    indignity.     Their    parents/'  she 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES.  123 

added, '"the  kings  of  England  and  Spain,  were 
esteemed  the  wisest  princes  of  their  times,  and 
had  undoubtedly  acted  by  the  best  advice  when 
they  concluded  the  treaty  of  marriage,  which  was 
now  represented  as  so  criminal ;  that  she  acqui- 
esced in  their  judgment,  and  would  not  submit 
her  cause  to  be  tried  by  a  court,  whose  depend- 
ance  on  her  enemies  was  too  notorious,  ever  to 
allow  her  any  hopes  of  obtaining  from  them  an 
equitable  and  impartial  decision."  Having  ut- 
tered these  words,  she  rose,  and  making  the  king 
a  low  reverence,  departed  from  the  court,  and 
never  would  again  appear.  After  her  departure 
Henry  did  her  the  justice  to  acknowledge,  that 
she  had  ever  been  a  dutiful  and  affectionate  wife, 
and  that  the  whole  tenor  of  her  behaviour  had 
been  conformable  to  the  strictest  rules  of  probity 
and  honour.  He  only  insisted  on  his  own  scru- 
ples, with  regard  to  the  unlawfulness  of  the  mar- 
riage. 

The  legates,  after  citing  the  queen  anew  to  ap- 
pear, declared  her  contumacious,  notwithstanding 
her  appeal  to  Rome,  and  then  proceeded  to  the 
examination  of  the  cause. 

The  business  went  on  so  rapidly  that  the  king 
was  every  day  in  expectation  of  a  sentence  in  his 
favour  ;  when  to  his  great  surpize,  Campegio, 
without  the  least  warning,  and  upon  frivolous 
pretences,  prorogued  the  court  for  live  months. 

The  impetuous  Henry,  who  could  bear  no  con- 
tradiction to  his  will,  was  extremely  enraged  at 
this  disappointment,  was  ready  to  encourage  eve- 
ry argument  which  might  seem  to  prove  the  ne- 
cessity of  a  divorce  ;  and  as  at  this  time  the  doc- 
trines of  Luther  had  begun  to  gain  strength,  and 
the  idea  of  the  pope's  infallibility  ^o  lose  ground, 
many  opinions  were  given,  which  tended  to  call  it 


124  HISTORICAL    SKETCHES. 

question  the  power  of  the  see  of  Rome  to  give  a 
dispensation  for  a  marriage  so  contrary  to  the  laws 
both  of  God  and  man.  Amongst  the  rest  Dr. 
Thomas  Cranmer,  an  eminent  divine  of  Cam- 
bridge, happened  to  be  in  company  with  Gardi- 
ner, secretary  of  state,  when  the  business  of  the 
divorce  became  the  svbject  of  conversation  ;  he 
observec',  that  the  readiest  way  either  to  quiet 
Henry's  conscience,  or  extort  the  pope's  consent, 
would  be  to  consult  all  the  universities  of  Europe, 
with  regard  to  this  controverted  point  :  if  they 
agreed  to  approve  the  king's  marriage  with  Catha- 
rine, his  remorse  would  naturally  cease  ;  if  they 
condemned  it,  the  pope  would  find  it  a  difficult 
matter  to  resist  the  solicitation  of  so  great  a  mo- 
narch, seconded  by  the  opinion  of  all  the  learned 
men  in  Christendom.  When  the  king  was  inform- 
ed of  this  proposal,  he  swore,  with  more  alacrity 
than  delicacy,  that  Cranmer  had  got  the  right  sow 
by  the  ear. 

His  agents  were  immediately  employed  to  col- 
lect the  judgments  of  all  the  universities  in  Eu- 
rope ;  who  gave  a  verdict  in  the  king's  favour. — 
Henry,  in  order  to  give  weight  to  all  these  autho- 
rities, engaged  his  nobility  to  recommend  his 
cause  to  the  pope,  and  to  threaten  him  with  the 
most  dangerous  consequences  in  case  of  a  denial 
of  justice.  But  Clement  who  was  entirely  under 
the  influence  of  the  emperor,  refused  to  grant  a 
divorce,  and  continued  to  summon  the  king  by 
proxy,  before  his  tribunal  at  Rome.  Henry  re- 
jected such  a  condition,  and  would  not  even  ad- 
mit of  any  citation,  which  he  regarded  as  a  high 
insult,  and  a  violation  of  his  prerogative.  The 
father  of  Anne  Boleyn,  created  earl  of  Wiltshire, 
carried  to  the  pope  the  king's  reasons  for  not  ap- 
pearing by  proxy  ;   and  as  the  first  instance  oi 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES*  125 

•disrespect  from  England  refused  to  kiss  his  holi- 
ness's  slipper. 

Henry  being  now  fully  determined  to  stand  all 
consequences,  espoused  the  object  of  his  affection, 
and  obtained  both  from  parliament  and  from  an 
ecclesiastical  court,  which  he  summoned,  in  con- 
tempt of  the  pope's  authority,  a  confirmation  of 
his  marriage  with  Anne  Boleyn. 

But  the  humiliation  of  Catharine,  did  not  end 
with  her  divorce*  Henry,  in  order  to  efface  as 
much  as  possible,  all  marks  of  his  first  marriage, 
sent  to  inform  her  that  she  was  henceforth  to  be 
treated  only  as  princess  of  Wales,  and  all  means 
were  employed  to  make  her  acquiesce  in  that  de- 
termination. But  she  persevered  in  maintaining 
the  validity  of  her  marriage  ;  and  she  would  ad- 
mit of  no  service  from  any  person  who  did  not 
approach  her  wiih  the  accustomed  ceremonials. 

Henry,  with  his  usual  harshness  employed  me- 
naces against  her  servants,  who  complied  with  her 
iCcmmands  in  this  particular  ;  but  even  though 
Jie  attained  several  of  high  treason  who  treated 
iier  as  queen  ;  yet  this  rigorous  measure  never 
compelled  Catharine  to  relinquish  her  title  and 
pretensions  ;  and  she  persisted  till  her  death  in 
.calling  herself  his  wife- 
She  died  in  1536,  at  Limbolton,  in  the  county 
of  Huntingdon,  in  the  fiftieth  year  of  her  age  ; 
and  on  her  death-bed  she  dictated  this  affectionate 
letter. 

"  Jffy  most  dear  Lord,  Xing'  and  Husband^ 

u  THE   hour  -of  my  death  approaching,   I 

cannot  choose,  out  of  love  I  bear  you,    but  advise 

you  of  your  soul's   health,  which   you  ought  to 

prefer  before  all   consideration*   of  the   worlds 

.1  2 


I2t>  HISTORICAL  SKETCKti: 

flesh  whatsoever.  For  which  you  have  cast 
mg  into  many  calamities,  and  yourself  into  many 
^roubles  :  but  I  forgive  you  all,  and  pray  God  to 
do  so  likewise.  For  the  rest,  I  commend  unto 
you  Mary  my  daughter,  beseeching  you  to  be  a 
good  father  to  her  as  I  have  heretofore  desired. 
I  must  entreat  you  also*  to  respect  my  maids,  and 
give  them  in  marriage,  which  is  not  much,  they 
being  but  three;  and  to  all  my  other  servants  a 
year's  pay,  besides  their  due,  lest  otherwise,  they 
should  be  unprovided  for.  Lastly,  Frnake  a  vow 
that  mine  eyes  desire  you  above  all  things." 

This  last  proof  of  Catharine's  affection  extort- 
ed tears  even  from  the  obdurate  Henry.  He  or- 
dered her  remains  to  be  interred  with  due  solem- 
nity, in  the  monastry  of  St.  Peterborough,  and  af- 
terwards erected  that  monastry  into  a  bishop's 
see,  as  a  tribute  of  affection  and  regard  to  the 
memory  of  a  person,  wrhose  sweetness  of  temper 
and  elevation  of  soul  rendered  her  worthy  of- it 
better  fate. 


QUEEN-CONSORT  OF    HENRY    THE    EIGHTH. 

ANNE  BOLEYN,  the  daughter  of  Sir  Tho- 
-mas  Boleyn,  was  born  in  1507,  and  carried  to 
France  at  seven  years  of  age,  by  the  sister  of 
Henry  VIII,  who  was  given  in  marriage  to  Louis 
XII.  After  the  death  of  Louis,  his  widow  re- 
turned to  her  native  country,  but  Anne  remain- 
ed in  France,  in  the  service  of  Claudia,  the  wife  of 
Francis  1.  The  year  of  her  return  to  England 
i*  uncertain  i  but  it  appeared  to'  have  been  about 


HISTORICAL  SKETCHES.  127 

the  time  when  scruples  were  first  entertained  by 
Henry  VIII,  respecting  the  legality  of  his  mar- 
riage with  the  betrothed  wife  and  widow  of  his 
brother,  Catharine  of  Arragon.  In  his  visits  to 
the  queen,  to  whom  Anne  Boleyn  became  maid 
of  honour,  Henry  had  an  opportunity  of  observ- 
ing her  beauty  and  captivating  maimers.  Anne 
quickly  perceived  her  influence  over  the  heart  of 
the  monarch,  whose  passion,  either  from  principle 
or  policy,  she  resolutely  resisted. 

The  king,  soon  after,  entertained  the  design  of 
raising  Anne  Boleyn  to  the  throne  ;■  and  was  the 
more  confirmed  in  this  resolution,  when  he  found 
that  her  virtue  precluded  all  hopes  of  gratifying 
his  passion  in  any  other  manner.  With  this  view 
he  eagerly  sued  for  a  divorce  from  Catharine  ;* 
and  when  Clement  conducted  the  affair  in  so  dila- 
tory and  ambiguous  a  manner,  that  Henry  did  not 
^;eem  to  be  the  least  nearer  the  accomplishment  of 
ids  wishes,  he  laid  the  extravagant  proposal  before 
the,  pope,  to  grant  him  a  dispensation  to  have  two 
wives,  and  to  render  the  children  of  both  legiti- 
timate  ;  and  as  the  king  was  a  great  casuist  in  mat- 
ters of  divinity,  which  seem  to  flatter  his  passion, 
he  alledged  in  favour  of  so  immoral  a  proceeding, 
several  precedents  in  the  Old  Testament. 

But  when  these,  and  all  other  means  of  obtain- 
ing the  pope's  consent  failed  of  success,  he  broke 
with  the  see  of  Home,  divorced  himself  from 
Catharine,  espoused  Anne  Boleyn,  and  obtained 
iiom  parliament  the  ratification  of  his  marriage. 

Soon  after  this  event,  the  pregnancy  of  Anne 
both  gave  joy  to  the  king,  and  was  regarded  by 
(he  people  as  a  strong  proof  of  lit  r  virtue.  On 
being  delivered  of  a  princess,  (who  afterwards 
swayed  the  sceptre  with  such  renown  under  the 
name  of  Elizabeth)  Mary,  the  only  daughter  of 


128  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

Henry  by  Catharine,  was  set  aside,  and  the  suc- 
cession to  the  crown  vested  in  the  issue  of  Anne 
Boleyn  by  the  king. 

Henry  had  persevered  constantly  in  his  love 
for  this  lady,  during  six  years  that  his  prosecution 
of  the  divorce  lasted  ;  and  the  obstacles  which 
opposed  the  gratification  of  his  passion  served 
only  to  redouble  his  ardour  :  but  the  afFection 
which  had  subsisted  so  long  under  difficulties,  had 
no  sooner  attained  secure  possession  of  its  ob- 
ject than  it  languished  from  satiety ;  and  the  king's 
heart  was  apparently  alienated  from  his  consort. 
Her  enemies  soon  perceived  this  fatal  change, 
and  were  very  forward  to  widen  the  breach.  She 
had  brought  forth  a  dead  son,  and  Henry's  ex- 
treme Fondness  for  male  issue,  being  thus  for  the 
present  disappointed,  his  temper,  equally  violent 
and  superstitious,  was  disposed  to  make  the  inno- 
cent mother  answerable  for  this  misfortune.  But 
the  chief  means  which  Anne's  enemies  employed 
to  inflame  the  king  against  her,  was  his  jea- 
lousy. 

Anne,  though  she  appears  to  have  been  entirely 
innocent,  and  even  virtuous  in  essentials,  had  a 
certain  gaiety,  if  not  levity  of  character,  which 
threw  her  off  her  guard,  and  made  her  less  cir- 
cumspect than  her  situation  required.  Her  edu- 
cation in  France  rendered  her  the  more  prone  to 
these  freedoms,  and  she  conformed  herself  with 
difficulty  to  that  strict  ceremony  which  was  prac- 
tised in  the  court  of  England.  More  vain  than 
haughty,  she  was  pleased  to  see  the  influence  of 
her  beauty  on  all  around  her  ;  and  she  indulged 
herself  in  an  easy  familiarity  with  persons  who 
were  formerly  her  equals. 

Henry's  dignity  was  offended  by  these  popular 
manners,  and  though  the  lover  had  been  entirely 


HISTORICAL  SKETCHES.  129 

blind,  the  husband  possessed  but  too  quick  dis- 
cernment and  penetration.  Wicked  instruments 
interposed,  and  put  a  malignant  interpretation  on 
the  harmless  liberties  of  the  queen.  The  vis- 
countess of  Rocheford  in  particular,  who  was 
married  to  the  queen's  brother,  but  who  had  lived 
on  bad  terms  with  her  sister-in-law,  insinuated  the 
most  cruel  suspicions  into  the  kind's  mind  ;  and, 
as  she  was  a  woman  of  a  very  profligate  charac- 
ter, paid  no  regard  either  to  truth  or  humanity  in 
those  calumnies  which  she  suggested.  She  mis- 
represented every  instance  of  favour  which  the 
queen  conferred  on  all  who  approached  her  person, 
as  tokens  of  affection  ;  and  even  pretended  that 
her  own  husband  was  engaged  in  a  criminal  cor- 
respondence with  his  sister.  These  imputations 
of  guilt  were  eagerly  admitted  by  Henry,  who 
had  transferred  his  affection  to  Jane  Seymour, 
maid. of  honour  to  the  queen,  whom  he  had  de- 
termined to  raise  to  the  throne. 

The  divorce  of  one  queen,  or  the  murder  of 
another,  under  the  sanction  of  the  law,  were  no 
obstacles  to  Henry's  will,  when  his  passion  was 
to  be*  gratified. 

The  king's  jealousy  first  appeared  openly  in  a 
tilting  at  Greenwich;  where  the  queen  happened 
to  drop  her  handkerchief  ;  an  instance,  probably 
casual,  but  interpreted  by  him  as  an  instance  of 
gallantry  to  some  of  her  paramours.  He  imme- 
diately retired  from  the  place,  sent  orders  to  con* 
line  her  to  her  chamber,  arrested  several  gentle- 
men  who  were  attendants  at  court,  and  her  bro- 
ther, the  earl  of  Rocheford. 

The  queen  was  at;  first  more  astonished  than 
alarmed  at  this  instance  of  his  violence  and  impe- 
tuosity, and  concluded  that'  he  intended  only  to 
terrify  her.     But  when  she  discovered  that  his 


130  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

indignation  did  not  subside,  she  reflected  on  his 
obstinate  unrelenting  spirit,  and  prepared  herself 
for  that  melancholy  doom  which  seemed  to  wait 
her. 

As  she  was  conveyed  to  the  tower,  she  was  in- 
formed of  her  supposed  offences,  of  which  she 
had  been  hitherto  ignorant :  she  made  earnest 
protestations  of  her  innocence,  and  when  she  en- 
tered her  prison,  she  fell  upon  her  knees,  and 
prayed  God  so  to  help  her,  as  she  was  not  guilty 
of  the  crime  imputed  to  her. 

Of  all  those  whom  the  beneficence  of  the 
queen's  temper  had  obliged,  during  her  prosper- 
ous fortune,  no  one,  except  Cranmer,  durst  in- 
terpose between  her  and  the  king's  fury  :  and 
the  person  whose  advancement  every  breath  had 
favoured,  and  every  countenance  had  smiled  upon, 
was  now  neglected  and  abandoned.  Even  her 
uncle  the  duke  of  Norfolk,  preferring  the  con- 
nections of  party  to  the  ties  of  blood,  was  be- 
come her  most  dangerous  enemy,  and  all  the  re- 
tainers to  the  catholic  religion  hoped,  that  her 
death  would  terminate  the  king's  quarrel  with 
Rome,  and  induce  him  to  renew  his  intimate  con- 
nection with  the  apostolic  See. 

In  this  crisis  of  alarm  and  danger,  the  queen 
endeavoured  to  soften  the  heart  of  her  obdurate 
husband,  by  a  letter,  which  from  its  simplicity 
and  firmness  conveys  internal  evidence  that  she 
was  not  essentially  culpable. 

This  letter  had  no  influence  on  the  mind  of 
Henry.  The  four  gentlemen  who  were  arrested, 
Norris,  Weston,  Brereton  and  Smeton,  were 
tried,  but  no  legal  evidence  was  procured  against 
them.  Smeton  was  prevailed  on,  by  the  vain 
hope  of  life,  to  confess  a  criminal  correspondence 
with  the  queen  ;  but  her  enemies  never  dared  to 


HISTORICAL  SKETCHES.  131  . 

confront  him  with  her,  and  he  was  immediately 
jexecuted.  Norris,  who  had  been  much  in  the 
king's  favour,  received  an  offer  of  pardon,  if  he 
would  confess  his  crime  and  accuse  the  queen  ; 
but  he  generously  rejected  that  proposal,  and  said, 
that  in  his  conscience,  he  believed  her  entirely 
guiltless,  and  would  die  a  thousand  deaths  rather 
than  calumniate  an  innocent  person. 

The  queen  and  her  brother  were  tried  by  a  ju- 
ry of  peers ;  their  uncle  the  duke  of  Norfolk  pre- 
sided as  lord  high  steward.  Upon  what  proof 
or  pretence  the  crime  of  incest  was  imputed  to 
them,  is  unknown :  the  most  trivial  and  absurd 
circumstances  were  admitted  by  the  peers  of  En- 
gland as  a  sufficient  evidence  for  sacrificing  an  in- 
nocent queen  to  the  cruelty  of  a  tyrant.  Though 
unassisted  by  council,  she  defended  herself  with 
great  judgement  and  presence  of  mind,  and  the 
spectators  could  not  forbear  pronouncing  her  en- 
tirely innocent.  Judgement  however  was  given 
by  the  court  both  against  the  queen  and  lord 
Rocheford.  When  sentence  of  death  was  pro- 
nounced, lifting  up  her  hands  to  heaven  she  said  : 
"  O  Father,  O  creator  !  thou  art  the  way,  the 
truth  and  the  life,  thou  knowest  that  I  have  not 
deserved  this  death  ;"— -and  then  turning  to  the 
judges,  made  the  mostpathetic  declaration  of  her 
innocence. 

The  queen  now  prepared  for  death.  She  sent 
her  last  message  to  the  king,  and  acknowledged 
her  obligations  to  him,  in  continuing  thus  uni- 
formly his  endeavours  for  her  advancement  : 
from  a  private  gentlewoman,  she  said  he  had  first 
made  her  a  marchioness,  then  a  queen,  and  now 
since  he  could  raise  her  no  higher  in  this  world, 
he  was  sending  her  to  be  a  saint  in  heaven.  She 
then  renewed  the  protestations  of  her  innocence. 


132  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES, 

and  recommended  her  daughter  to  his  care.  Be- 
fore the  lieutenant  of  the  tower,  and  all  who  ap- 
proached her,  she  made  the  like  declaration,  and 
continued  to  behave  herself  with  her  usual  sere- 
nity, and  even  with  cheerfulness. 

When  her  execution  was  deferred  for  a  few 
hours,  she  said  to  the  lieutenant  of  the  tower, 
"  I  am  sorry  I  shall  not  die  till  noon,  for  I  thought 
to  be  dead  by  this  time,  and  past  my  pain  ;  but 
the  executioner,  I  hear  is  very  expert,  and  my 
neck  is  very  slender."  Upon  which  she  grasped 
it  in  her  hand  and  smiled. 

Such  was  her  calmness  and  serenity  at  the  hour 
of  her  death,  that  the  lieutenant  of  the  tower 
said,  "I  have  seen  many  men  and  women  exe- 
cuted, and  they  have  been  in  great  sorrow  ;  and 
to  my  knowledge,  this  lady  hath  much  pleasure 
in  death." 

When  she  was  brought  tq^the  place  of  execu- 
tion she  expressed  herself  in  the  following  man- 
ner : 

"  Good  christian  people  !  I  am  come  hither  to 
die  according  to  law,  and  by  the  law  I  am  judged 
to  die,  and  therefore  I  will  speak  nothing  against 
it.  I  am  come  hither  to  accuse  no  man,  nor  to 
speak  any  thing  of  that  whereof  I  am  accused 
and  condemned  to  die.  But  I  pray  God  save  the 
king,  and  send  him  long  to  reign  over  you  ;  for  a 
gentle  and  more  merciful  prince  was  there  never, 
and  to  me  he  was  ever  a  good,  a  gentle,  and,  a 
sovereign  lord.  And  if  any  person  will  meddle 
of  my  cause,  I  request  them  to  judge  the  best. 
And  thus  I  take  my  leave  of  the  world,  and  of 
you  all ;   and  I  heartily  desire  you  to    pray  for  i 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES.  133 


CATHARINE    PAR, 

HENRY  having  divorced  himself ,  from  Ca- 
tharine of  Arragon,  and  Anne  of  Cleves,  lost  Jane 
Seymour  by  death,  and  beheaded  Anne  Boleyn, 
and  Catharine  Howard  ;  espoused  in  1543,  Lady 
Catharine  Par,  widow  of  Nevil,  Lord  Latimer, 
"  a  woman,"  according  to  Lord  Herbert  of 
Cherbury  "  of  much  integrity  and  worth,  and 
some  maturity  of  years  ;  beautified  with  many  ex- 
cellent virtues,  especially  with  humanity,  the 
beauty  of  all  other  virtues." 

Henry,  who  was  as  fickle  in  his  opinions  and 
sentiments  about  religion,  as  he  had  shewn  him- 
self with  regard  to  his  wives,  was  continually  al- 
tering his  religious  tenets,  which  he  obstinately 
required  should  be  believed  and  followed  through- 
out the  kingdom.  Many  persons  were  cruelly- 
tortured  and  punished  with  death,  for  not  recant- 
ing their  opinion  ;  among  others  queen  Catha- 
rine was  near  falling  a  sacrifice  to  his  malignity. 
In  1546,  the  king  from  his  extreme  corpulency 
and  bad  habit  of  body,  became  afflicted  with 
disorders,  which  threatened  his  life,  and  rendered 
him  even  morethan  usually  peevish  and  passion- 
ate. The  queen  attended  him  with  the  most 
tender  and  dutiful  care,  and  endeavoured  by  every 
soothing  art  and  compliance,  to  allay  those  gusts 
of  humour  which  were  increased  by  his  infirmi- 
ties, to  a  most  alarming  degree.  His  favorite  topic 
of  conversation  was  theology  ;  and  Catharine, 
whose  good  sense  made  her  capable  of  discour  <>- 
ing  on  any  subject,  was  frequently  engaged  in  the 
argument  ;    and   being   secretly  inclined    to   xh.r 


134  HISTORICAL    SKETCHES. 

principles  of  the  reformers,  she,  unwarily  disco 
vered  too  much  of  her  mind  on  these  occasions. 
Henry,  highly  provoked  that  she  should  presume 
to  differ  from  him,  made  complaints  of  her  ob- 
stinacy to  Gardiner,  bishop  of  Winchester,  who 
gladly  laid  hold  of  the  opportunity  to  inflame  the 
quarrel.  He  praised  the  kifig's  anxious  care  for 
preserving  the  orthodoxy  of  his  subjects  ;  and 
represented  that  the  more  elevated  the  person 
was,  who  was  chastised,  and  the  more  near  to  his 
person,  the  greater  terror  would  the  example 
strike  into  everyone,  and  the  more  glorious  would 
the  sacrifice  appear  to  all  posterity. 

Henry,  hurried  by  his  own  impetuous  temper, 
and  encouraged  by  his  councellorsy  went  so  far 
as  to  order  articles  of  impeachment  to  be  drawn 
up  against  his  consort,  Wriothesely,  the  chancel- 
lor, executed  his  commands  ;  and  having  ob* 
tained  the  signature  of  the  warrant*  he  chanced 
to  drop  this  important  paper  from  his  pocket; 
and  as  some  persons  of  the  queer- 7s  party  found  it, 
it  was  immediately  carried  her.  She  was  sensi- 
ble of  the  extreme  danger  to  which  she  was  ex-  ■ 
posed  ;  but  did  despair  of  being  able  by 
her  prudence  and  address,  still  to  elude  the  ef- 
forts of  her  enemies.  She  paid  her  usual  visit 
to  the  king,  and  found  him  in  a  more  serene  dis- 
position than  she  had  reason  to  expect.  He  en- 
tered on  a  subject  which  was -so  familiar  to  him, 
and  he  seemed  to  challenge  her  to  an  argument 
in  divinity.  She  gently  declined  the  conversa- 
lion,  and  observed  thr*  such  profound  speculations 
were  ill  suited  to  the  natural  imbecility  of  the  sex. 
"  Women,"  said  she,  "  by  their  first  creation, 
were  made  subject  to  men:  the  female  after  the 
image  of  the  male  ;  it  belonged  to  the  husband 
oose  principles  for  his  wife  ;  the  wife's  duty 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES.  io5 

was,  in  all  cases,  to  adopt  implicitly  the  senti- 
ments of  her  husband  :  and  as  to  herself,  it  was 
doubly  her  duty,  being  blest  with  a  husband, 
who  was  qualified  by  his  judgment  and  learning, 
not  only  to  choose  principles  for  his  own  family, 
but  for  the  most  wise  and  knowing  of  every  na 
tion." 

"  Not  so  by  St.  Mary  \n  replied  the  king  ; 
"  you  are  now  become  a  doctor,  Kate  :  and  better 
fitted  to  give  to  than  to  receive  instruction. "  She 
meekly  replied,  "  that  she  was  sensible  how  little 
she  was  entitled  to  these  praises  ;  that  though 
she  usually  declined  not  any  conversation,  how- 
ever  sublime,  when  proposed  by  his  majesty  :  she  .. 
well  knew  that  her  conceptions  could  serve  to  no 
other  purpose,  than  to  give  him  a  little  momentary 
amusement,  that  she  found  the  consersation  apt  to 
languish  when  not  revived  by  some  opposition, 
and  had  ventured  sometimes  to  feign  a  contrariety 
of  sentiments,  in  order  to  give  him  the  pleasure 
of  refuting  her  ;  and  that  she  .also  pi -opooed,  by 
this  innocent  nrtiiice,  to  engage  him  into  topics 
whence  she  had  observed  by  frequent  experience, 
that  she  reaped  profit  and  instruction.'' — **  And  is 
it  even  so  sweetheart  ?"  replied  the  king,  u  then 
we  are  perfect  friends  again." — He  embraced  her 
with  great  affection,  and  sent  her  away  with  as- 
surances of  protection  and  kindness. 

Catharine's  enemies,  who  were  ignorant  of  this 
reconciliation  prepared  next  day  to  convey  her 
to  the  tower,  pursuant  to  the  king's  warrant* 
Henry  and  Catharine  wery  conversing  amicably 
in  the  garden,  when  the  chancellor  appeared  with 
forty  constables.  The  king  spoke  to  him  at  some 
distance  from  her :  and  seemed  to  expostulate 
with  him  in  the  severest  manner  :  she  even  over- 
heard the  terms  of  knave,  fool,  and  beast,  which 


136  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

he  very  liberally  bestowed  upon  the  magistrate -? 
and  then  ordered  him  to  depart  from  his  presence. 
Catharine  afterwards  interposed  to  mitigate  his 
anger,  M  poor  soul !  you  know  not  how  little  intit- 
Jed  this  man  is  to  your  good  offices.  From  thence- 
forth, the  queen  having  narrowly  escaped  so  great 
a  danger,  was  careful  not  to  offend  Henry 'V  hu- 
mor by  any  contradiction  ;  and  Gardiner  whose 
malice  had  endeavoured  to  widen  the  breach, 
could  never  afterwards  recover  his  favour  and 
good  opinion* 

Thus  Catharine,  by  her  good  sense  and  pro- 
priety of  conduct,  and  by  yielding  to  the  torrent 
which  she  could  not  stop,  affords  a  convincing 
proof  that  mildness  of  temper  will  often  gain 
that  ascendency  over  the  turbulent  passions  of 
man,  which  a  less  gentle  spirit  would  in  vain  en- 
deavour to  control. 


MARIA    BEATRICE     D'£5T», 

CONSORT    OF   JAMES    THE    SECOND.. 

MARIA  BEATRICE  LEONORA,  of  the 

illustrious  house  of  Este,  second  consort  of  Jamesr 
the  second,  was  daughter  of  Alfonso  the  fourth^ 
duke  of  Modena,  and  of  Loura  Martinozz;,  niece 
of  cardinal  Mazarine.  She  was  born  in  1658, 
and  educated  with  a  view  to  take  the  veil  :  but 
fortune  disposed  of  her  otherwise,  and  instead  oi 
being  immured  in  the  tranquil  gloom  of  a  con- 
vent, she  was  thrown  into  a  busy  scene,  and  des- 
tined to  be  buffettedby  the  storms  and  tempests 
of  an  adverse  world. 


: 


.      HISTORICAL  SKETCHES.  13? 

James,  duke  of  York,  soon  after  the  death  of 
his  first  wife,  declared  his  conversion  to  the  Cath- 
olic religion,  and  agreed  to  espouse  Maria  of  the 
house  of  Este,  whom  Louis  the  fourteenth  de- 
clared an  adoptive  daughter  of  France,  and  of- 
fered to  provide  her  with  a  suitable  portion.  But 
when  the  messenger  brought  to  Modena  the  pro- 
posals of  the  duke  of  York,  her  mother  Loura, 
opposed  the  match,  under  the  pretence  that  her 
daughter,  then  only  fifteen  was  too  youug,  and 
intended  to  assume1  the  veil,  and  recommended 
in  her  stead  the  princess  Honoria,  sister  of  her 
late  husband  Alfonso  the  fourth. 

The  young  princess  either  secretly  instigated 
by  Rer  mother,  or  impelled  by  devotion,  express- 
ed a  determined  resolution  to  enter  into  a  con- 
vent;  nor  was  her  repugnance  overcome,  until  a 
letter  was  procured  from  the  pope,  commending 
the  marriage  as  highly  beneficial  to  the  Roman 
Catholic  religion,  and  condemning  the  resolutions 
of  the  princess,  to  persevere  in  assuming  the  veil, 
as  immoral  and  criminal.  This  letter  had  its  in- 
tended efFect  :  on  the  SOth  of  September,  Maria 
was  married  to  the  dnke  of  York,  by  proxy,  and 
accompanied  by  her  mother,  -arrived  at  Paris  : 
where,  as  a  prelude  to  her  future  misfortunes,  she 
was"  detained  till  the  repugnance  of  the  parliament, 
to  the  marriage  of  the  presumptive  heir  with  a 
Catholic  princess,  was  finally  overcome.  It  was 
not  till  the  tenth  December  that  she  disembarked 
at  Dover,  where  she  was  received  by  the  duke, 
her  husband  ;  by  whom  she  was  conducted  with 
regal  pomp  to  London. 

Her  amiable  ^qualities  and  meekness  of  .beha- 
viour, would  have  conciliated  the  esteem  of  the 
lish,  if  the  dread  of  the  Roman  Catholic  re- 
-.  had  not  hardened  their  hearts,    and  made 


i38  J?ISTOKICAL    SKLTCHEa. 

'her  the  object  of  general  aversion.  Unfortunate- 
ly for  her,  the  conduct  of  James  contributed  to 
render  his  marriage  more  and  more  unpopular 
ffd  as  the  house  of  Modena  was  in  close  alliance 
with  France,  it  was  apprehended  that  Louis 
would  assist  him,  on  his  accession  to  the  crown, 
to  restore  the  church  of  Kome.  These  apprehen- 
sions were  but  too  nearly  verified  :.  James  after  his 
Accession  rapidly  caused  laws  to  be  enacted  for 
the  advantage  of  the  Roman  Catholics,  and  the 
oppression  of  the  Protestants. 

In  consequence  of  these  innovations,  tiie  Pro- 
testants made  application  to  the  prince  of  Orange 
to  protect  their  laws  and  religion.  The  prince 
hmded  at  Torbay  the  5th  of  November,  1688  . 
James  himself,  deserted  by  his  army,  and  even  by 
his  own  children,  and  none  remaining  in  whom 
he  could  confide*  precipitately  embraced  the  re- 
solution of  sending  his  family,  and  likewise  of  re- 
tiring himself,  into  France.  In  this  resolution  he 
was  encouraged  by  the  queen,  who  was  sensible 
that  her  strong  attachment  to  her  own  religion, 
had  rendered  her  the  object  of  general  hatred, 
and  who  was  terrified  by  the  great  ferment  into 
which  the  nation  was  thrown. 

Louis  the  fourteenth  having,  with  the  great- 
est humanity,  offered  his  protection  to  the  depos- 
ed king,  at  ihe  time  when  all  abandoned  and  be- 
trayed him,  sent  the  duke  de  Lauzun  to  London, 
to  convey  the  queen  and  the  prince  of  Wales,  then 
an  infant,  privately  to  France.  Madame  de  Se- 
vign'e  has  tbus  described  their  escape  : 

"The  evening  of  Lauzun's  arrival  in  London, 
the  king,  who  had  taken  the  resolution  to  favour 
the  queen's  escape,  retired  with  her  as  usual  into 
her  department,  laid  himself  down  to  repose,  and 
dismissed  his  attendants.    An  hour  afterwards  he 


HISTORICAL  SKETCHES.  139 

rose,  and  ordered  a  valet  to  introduce  a  person 
whom  he  would  find  waiting  at  the  door  of  the 
anti  chamber  ;  it  was  the  duke  de  Lauzun.  The 
king  said  to  him,  4  I  ti  .<st  the  queen  and  my  son 
to  your  care  ;  you  must  risk  all  hazards,  and  en- 
counter all  difficulties,  to  conduct  them  into 
France.''  Lauzun  thanked  him  for  the  trust  re- 
posed in  him,  but  said  it  was  .absolutely  necessa- 
ry, that  another  person  should  accompany  him  ; 
and  introduced  Saint  Victor,  a  gentleman  of  cou- 
rage* and  merit.  Saint  Victor  took  the  infant  and 
wrapped  him  up  in  his  great  coat.  Lauzun  hand- 
ed the  queen,  (you  may  easily  imagine  the  scene 
of  parting  between  the  king  and  queen)  and,  fol- 
lowed by  two  female  attendants,  conducted  her 
into  the  street,  placed  her  in  a  hackney  coach, 
and  conveyed  her  to  the  Thames,  where  they  took 
a  small  open  boat  and  descended  the  river,  in 
such  boisterous  and  rainy  weather,  that  the  ele- 
ments while  they  seemed  to  conspire  against 
them,  in  reality  favoured  their  escape. 

At  length  reaching  the  mouth  of  the  Thames, 
they  embarked  in  a  small  sloop.  Lauzun  sat  by 
the  side  of  the  captain  purposing  to  throw  him 
into  the  sea,  if  he  should  discover  the  rank  of  the 
persons  whom  he  had  on  board,  and  offered  to 
deliver  them  unto  the  adverse  party  :  but  the  cap- 
tain imagining  that  he  carried  ordinary  passen- 
gers, was  only  anxious  to  pass  carefully  through 
fiftv,  Dutch  ships,  which  paid  no  attention  to  this 
little  yatch. 

u  Thus  concealed  by  the  mean  appearance  of 
the  vessel,  and  conducted  by  heaven,,  the  queen 
;md  her  party  landed  at  Calais.  The  queen  re-. 
tired  into  a  convent  at  Bologue,  till  she  received 
news  of  the  king's  safety,  It  is  well  known  that 
the  prince   of  Orange  was  desirous   that  James 


140  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES* 

should  leave  England.  He  was  sent  to  Roches- 
ter, the  very  place  to  which  he  had  intended  go- 
ing. The  house  appointed  for  its  reception  was 
strongly  guarded  in  front,  but  the  back  part  was 
not  secured,  by  which  means  he  made  his  escape 
to  France. 

"Louis  acts  divinely  towards  the  royal  fugi- 
tives ;  for  is  it  not  being  the  image  of  the  All- 
powerful  Being,  to  support  a  king  at  a  time  when 
he  was  betrayed  and  abandoned  by  his  subjects, 
and  obliged  to  fly  from  his  kingdom? 

"  The  magnanimous  soul  of  Louis  performs 
this  great  part  He  set  out  with  his  retinue  and 
a  hundred  coaches  and  six,  to  meet  the  queen  and 
the  prince  of  Wales.  When  he  perceived  the 
prince's  coach,  he  alighted  from  his  carriage,  and 
embraced  the  child  tenderly  ;  he  then  ran  to  the 
queen,  saluted  her,  and  conversed  with  her  some 
time,  he  seated  her  on  his  right  hand  in  his  own 
carriage,  and  carried  her  to  Saint  Germain, 
where  she  found  herself  treated  like  a  queen  ; 
was  provided  with  clothes,  and  every  accommo- 
dation, and  was  presented  with  a  small  box,  con- 
taining six  thousand  louis'd'ors. 

u  The  following  day  James  arrived  at  St.  Ger- 
main. Louis  went  to  the  end  of  the  hall  to  re- 
ceive the  king  of  England:  James  bowed  very 
low,  as  if  he  would  embrace  his  knees  :  Louis 
prevented  him,  and  embraced  him  very  cordially ; 
and  then  said  to  him,  'This,  sir,  is  your  house; 
when  I  shall  corne  here  you  will  do  the  honours, 
anil  I  will  pay  them  to  you  when  you  come  tc 
Versailles. 

u  Louis  sent  ten  thousand  louis'd'ors  to  the  fal- 
len king.  James  appears  old  and  worn  one;  the 
queen  is  thin,  and  distress  is  painted  on  her  coun- 
tenance ;  bat  she  has    fine  black  eves,  beautifu- 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES.  141 

teeth,  an  elegant  shape  :  and  is  possessed  of  a  su- 
perior understanding.  On  seeing  Louis  caress 
the  prince  of  Wales,  who  is  a  lovely  child,  she 
said  to  him,  i  I  have  often  envied  the  happiness 
of  my  son,  because  he  cannot  feel  the  weight  of 
his  misfortunes,  but  now  I  pity  him  because  he  is 
insensible  to  the  value  of  ihe  caresses  and  the 
kindness  of  your  majesty. " 

u  Her  husband  forms  a  total  contrast  to  her 
character  ;  h£  has  great  personal  counige,  but  an 
inferior  understanding,  and  relates,  with  an  aston- 
ishing degree  of  insensibility,  the  unparalleled 
adventures  which  have  befallen  him  in  England." 

Many  efforts  were  made  by  Louis  to  restore 
James  to  the  throne,  but  they  all  proved  ineffec- 
tual. The  queen  entered  into  correspondence 
with  several  of  the  English  nobility,  who  were 
favourable  to  her  cause  ;  but  all  her  attempts  to 
procure  a  revolution  were  fruitless.  She  had 
much  more  spirit  and  far  greater  ambition  than 
James,  who  was  satisfied  with  the  empty  title  ox 
king,  which  he  enjoyed  in  France,  and  what  he 
valued  still  more  highly,  the  appellation  of  saint; 
for  which  he  relinquished  a  crown,  and  even  pri  - 
ded  himself  on  the  loss.  His  principles  of  reli- 
gion were  sincere,  and  he  frequently  was  heard  to 
declare,  that  he  owed  more  to  the  prince  of 
Orange  than  to  all  the  world  besides,  as,  by  seiz- 
ing the  crown,  he  had  proved  to  him  the  nothing- 
ness of  all  human  grandeur,  and  rendered  him 
fitter  for  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

On  his  death  bed,  almost  his  last  words  were, 
that  he  entreated  God  to  pardon  all  his  enemies, 
and  particularly  the  prince  of  Orange  ;  and  he 
said  to  his  son  with  a  mixture  of  philosophy  and 
religion, '  whatever  may  be  thecharms  of  a  crown, 
the   time  must  come  when  it  will  be    of   no   va> 


14^  HISTORICAL    SKETCHES* 

me ;  respect  your  mother,  love  the  king  of  France, 
and  prefer  your  religion  to  all  eirthly  grandeur.' 

Louis  the  fourteenth  had  long  hesitated  whe- 
ther he  should  acknowledge  the  son  of  James  the 
second,  after  the  death  of  his  father. 

On  the  day  previous  to  that  en  which  James 
died,  Maria,  introduced  b)^  Madame  de  Mainte- 
zion  into  the  presence  of  Louis  the  fourteenth, 
conjui id  him  not  to  affront  the  memory  of  a  king, 
whom  he  had  so  warmly  protected,  and  who  was 
soon  to  be  no  more,  by  withholding  from  his  son 
a  simple  title,  the  sole  remains  of  all  his  grandeur, 
nor  to  heap  such  disgrace  on  her  innocent  son, 
whom  he  had  already  treated  as  prince  of  Wales, 
and  whom  he  ought  therefore  to  acknowledge  as 
king  after  the  death  of  his  father.  His  glory  by- 
such  a  conduct,  she  added,  would  be  sullied,  and 
his  interests  would  not  be  advanced  :  for  whether 
he  acknowledged,  or  refused  to  acknowledge,  the 
son  of  the  unfortunate  king,  England  would 
equally  arm  against  France,  and  he  would  only 
experience  the  regret  of  having  sacrificed  the 
feelings  of  humanity  and  dignity  cf  *.<?*»* iment, 
to  useicss  precautions.  Louis  affected  by  her 
tears,  which  w ere  ably  seconded  by  the  represen- 
tations of  Madame  de  Maintenon,  immediately 
repaired  to  the  apartment  of  the  dying  king : 
4 1  come,  sir,'  he  said,  '  to  acquaint  your  ma- 
jesty, that  whenever  it  pleases  God  to  remove  you 
from  this  world  into  a  better,  I  will  take  your  fa- 
mily under  my  protection  ;  that  I  will  treat  your 
son,  the  prince  of  Wales,  in  the  same  manner  as 
king  of  England,  as  will  be  his  undoubted  right.'' 

All  who  were  present,  shed  tears  at  this  speech, 
some  threw  themselves  at  his  feet  and  embraced 
<h\s  knc;-s  :  scrae  uttered  incoherent  expression?  ; 


HISTORICAL  SKETCHES.  145 

others  testified,  by  gestures,  more  expressive  than 
words,  their  sensibility  at  so  generous  an  action. 
Louis  himself  was  so  affected  at  this  touching 
scene,  that  he  wept ;  and  the  dying  monarch  was 
seen  struggling,  almost  in  the  agonies  of  death, 
to  signify  his  gratitude  and  joy. 

Not  long  before  the  death  of  Anne,  Maria  in-  i 
dulged  the  fond  hope  that  her  son  would  be  called 
to  the  succession ;  but  saw  that  hope  frustrated 
almost  as  soon  as  it  was  conceived.  She  heard 
that,  on  the  accession  of  George,  the  English  na~ 
tion  was  filled  with  discontent,  and  that  a  large 
party  was  ready  to  declare  in  favour  of  her  son. 
She  embraced  him  at  his  departure,  in  order  to 
put  himself  at  the  head  of  the  mal -contents,  and 
said,  'My  son,  return  king,  or  do  not  return  at 
all ;'  yet  in  a  few  months  she  had  the  mortification 
to  see  him  return  without  a  crown,  and  the  still 
greater  mortification  to  behold  the  regent-duke  of 
Orleans  in  close  alliance  with  George  the  first, 
and  the  court  of  France,  which  had  hitherto  pro- 
tected her  son,  compel  him  to  retire  in  disgrace 
from  that  kingdom  in  which  he  had  taken  an 
asylum. 

She  lived,  however,  to  hear,  that  he  was  re- 
seived  at  Madrid  with  royal  honours,  and  that 
great  preperations  were  making  to  restore  him  to 
the  throne,  but  death  saved  her  from  the  chagrin 
of  finding  her  sanguine  expectations  again  frus- 
(rated,  and  of  beholding  him  a  fugitive,  wander- 
ing  without  any  settled  abode,  and  avoided  by  the 
principal  powers  of  Europe. 

Maria  died  at  St.  Germain,  on  the  7th  of  May, 
in 8,  in  the  sixty-first  year  of  her  age  ;  a  prin- 
cess whose  meekness  in  prosperous,  and  dignity 
in  adverse    circumstances,  attracted   the  esteem 


144         WW     HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

of  her  own  age,  and  deserve  the  admiration  of 
posterity. 


QUEEN    MARY, 

CONSORT     OF   WILLIAM    III. 

MARY,  eldest  daughter  of  James,  duke  of 
York,  by  Anne  Hyde,  daughter  of  the  earl  of 
Clarendon,  was  born  in  May,  1662,  and  by  the 
command  of  Charles  the  second,  was  educated  in 
the  protestant  religion,  in  direct  opposition  to  her 
father,  who  professed  the  doctrines  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  church. 

Charles,  though  without  religion  himself,  had 
sense  sufficient  to  perceive  and  calculate  its  ef- 
fects and  influence  over  the  public  mind,  and  in 
order  to  quiet  the-suspicions  of  the  people,  and  to 
stem  the  torrent  of  popular  discontents,  offered 
the  lady  Mary  in  marriage  to  his  nephew,  Wil- 
liam, prince  of  Orange. 

During  the  course  of  the  negociation  for  the 
marriage,  Mary  experienced  a  satisfaction  which 
few  princesses  ever  enjov,  that  of  being  convinc- 
ed that  her  person  and  dispositions,  no  less  than 
her  rank  and  situation,  were  the  motives  which 
influenced  the  choice  of  William. 

On  his  arrival  in  England  he  declined  acceding 
to  the  offer  of  the  princess's  hand,  until  he  had 
seen  and  conversed  with  her.  He  declared  that, 
contrary  to  the  usual  sentiments  of  persons  of  his 
rank,  he  placed  a  great  part  of  his  happiness  in 
domestic  satisfaction  ;  and  would  not,  upon  any 
•consideration  of  interest  or  policy,  unite  himself 
with  a  person  who  was  not  perfectly  agreeable  tc 


aiSTOKICAL  SKETCHED.  146 

him.  Being  introduced,  be  found  the  princess  in 
the  bloom  of  youth  and  beauty,  pleasing  in  her 
manners,  graceful  in  her  person,  and  meek  in  her 
dispositon  ;  and  became  no  less  eager  from  incli- 
nation than  prompted  by  interest  to  conclude  the 
match.  Mary  had  penetration  sufficient  to  dis- 
tinguish the  great  and  noble  mind  of  die  prince 
of  Orange,  through  his  cold  and  reserved  beha- 
viour. 

The  marriage  was  solemnized  on  the  10th  of 
May,  1677.  Mary  accompanied  her  husband 
abroad,  and  resided  in  Holland.  The  court  of 
the  Hague  became  the  centre  of  the  intrigues  and 
cabals  of  the  popular  party  in  England,  who 
looked  up  to  the  prince  of  Orange  as  their  support 
and  protection  against  the  profligate  Charles,  the 
pensioner  of  the  French  court,  and  the  attempts 
of  James,  to  subvert  the  constitution  of  church 
and  state.  At  length  the  spirit  of  the  English 
nation,  and  the  prudence  and  valour  of  William 
effected  the  revolution  of  1688,  and  placed  Wil- 
liam and  Mary  on  the  throne.  During  the  dis- 
putes which  accompanied  the  act  of  settlement, 
Mary  preserved  herself  free  from  all  interference, 
and  co-cperated  with  the  wishes  of  her  husband, 
and  the  sentiments  of  the  nation.  Both  houses 
of  parliament  were  desirous  of  proclaiming  Mary 
queen  and  the  prince  of  Orange  regent.  When. 
William  had  expressed  his  resolution  not  to  ac- 
cept a  crown,  which  must  depend  on  the  life 
and  will  cf  another,  Mary  seconded  his  views, 
and  preferred  her  duty  to  her  husband  and  the 
interest  of  her  country,  to  every  motive  Gf  am- 
bition and  interest.  When  lord  Danbv  also  offer- 
ed the  princess,  that  if  she  would  join  his  party- 
he  would  place  her  alone  upon  the  throne,  Mary 
replied,  that  she  was  the  prince's  wife,  and  that 


146  HISTORICAL  SKETCHED 

her  only  desire  was  to  act  in  conjunction  with  him, 
and  that  she  should  be  extremeiy  displeased  with 
all  those,  who,  under  a  pretence  of  promoting  her 
particular  welfare,  should  presume  to  set  up  a 
divided  interest  between  her  and  the  prince ;  and 
she  instantly  sent  lord  Danby's  letter  and  the  an- 
swer to  the  prince,  and  thus  broke  all  the  mea- 
sures of  those  who  wished  to  created  a  misunder- 
standing between  them. 

Accordingly  the  crown  was  settled  on  Willian\ 
and  Mary,  the  sole  administration  vested  in  Wil- 
liam ;  and  Mary  did  not  again  appear  in  a  public 
and  political  character  till  1690,  when  James 
landed  in  Ireland  at  the  head  of  a  French  army, 
and  was  joined  by  a  large  concourse  of  the  na- 
tives :  William  repaired  instantly  to  the  scene  of 
danger;  and  Mary  was  appointed  regent  during 
his  absence.  She  had  lived  so  abstracted  from 
business,  and  so  totally  absorbed  in  domestic  oc- 
cupations, that  it  was  generally  concluded  she  had 
no  talents  for  government  :  but  William  knew 
and  appreciated  her  capacity  for  business. 

While  the  English  were  intent  upon  the  fate  of 
the  Irish  war,  they  were  alarmed  with  the  disco- 
very of  a  conspiracy  at  home,  in  which  several 
Scottish  and  English  noblemen  were  engaged, 
and  were  to  be  assisted  by  the  navy  of  France, 
which  soon  arrived  upon  the  coast  of  England. 
The  queen  exerted  herself  with  great  vigour  in 
causing  the  principal  conspirators^o  be  arrested, 
and  exemplified  a  wonderful  magnanimity  in  this 
time  of  trial  and  danger,  as  appears  by  the  fol- 
lowing expressions  in  her  letter  to  king  Wil- 
liam : 

4i  The  news  which  has  come  to-night,  of  the 
French  fleet  being  upon  the  coast,  makes  it  be 
thought  necessary  to  write  to  you  both  ways  ;  and 


HISTORICAL    SK'eTCHLS.  '147 

i,  that  you  may  see  how  matters  stand  ..in  my 
heart,  prepare  a  letter  for  each.  I  think  lord 
Torrington  has  made  no  haste  :  and  I  cannot  tell 
whether  his  being  sick,  and  staying  for  lord  Pem- 
broke's regiment,  will  be  a  sufficient  excuse.  But 
I  will  not  take  up  your  time  with  my  reasonings, 
I  shall  only  tell  you  that  I  am  so  little  afraid, 
that  I  begin  to  fear  I  have  not  sense  enough  to 
apprehend  the  danger  :  for  whether  it  threatens 
Ireland  or  this  place,  tome  it  h  much  as  one  as 
to  the  fear  ;  for  as  much  a  coward  as  you  think 
me,  I  fear  more  for  your  dear  person  than  for 
myself.  I  know  which  is  most  necessary  in  the 
world.  What  I  fear  most  at  present  is  not  hear- 
ing from  you.  Love  me,  whatever  happens,  and 
be  assured  I  am  ever  entirely  your's  till  death." 

When  the  French  squadron  arrived  upon  the 
coast  of  England,  lord  Torrington,  who  com- 
manded  the  English  and  Dutch  fleets  engaged 
with  the  French  oif  Beachy-head  ;  the  Dutch 
lost  several  vessels,  and  the  next  day  the  combin- 
ed fleet  declined  a  second  battle,  and  retired  to 
the  Thames,  to  defend  the  metropolis;  the  Dutch 
in  their  retreat,  burning  some  of  their  own  ship.-, 
to  prevent  their  falling  into  the  hands  of  the 
cue  in)-. 

When  this  defeat  was  known  in  London,  a  sud  • 
den  despondency  seized  all  the  people,  and  it  was 
believed  that  England  and  Holland  would  fail 
victims  to  the  fatal  friendship  of  Louis  and  James. 
Vet  Mary,  even  then,  by  her  actions  and  in  her 
letters,  shewed  great  fortitude,  and  expressed  ex- 
treme confidence  in  the  goodness  of  her  cause  : 

"  As  for  the  ill-success  at  sea,  I  am  more  con- 
cerned for  the  honour  of  the  nation  than  any 
thing  else  ;  but  I  think  it  has  pleased  God  to  pun- 
ish them  justlv,  for   thev  reallv  talked   as  if  it 


14S  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

were;impossible  they  should  be  beaten.  I  pray 
God  we  may  no  more  deserve  the  punishment* 
I  fear  this  news  may  give  courage  to  those  who 
retired  before  ;  but  God  can  disappoint  them  all, 
and  i  hope  will  take  care  of  his  cause.  I  long  to 
hear  again  from  yon,  which  is  my  only  comfort, 
loving  you  more  than  my  life." 

Again — u  Monmouth  endeavours  to  fright  me, 
by  telling  me  the  danger  we  are  in,  and  indeed 
things  have  but  a  melancholy  prospect ;  but  I  am. 
fully  persuaded  God  will  do  some  great  thing  or 
other,  it  may  be  when  human  means  fail,  he  will 
shew  his  power." 

Having  heard  that  William  was  wounded,  in 
the  midst  of  her  anxiety  for  the  fate  of  Great 
Britain,  she  writes; — "  For  God's  sake  let  me 
beg  you  to  take  more  care  for  the  time  to  come  ; 
consider  what  depends  upon  your  safety  ;  there 
are  so  many  more  important  things  than  myself, 
that  I  am  not  worthy  of  naming  them." 

William  immediately  after  gaining  the  memo- 
Table  battle  of  the  Boyne,  which  entirely  gave  his 
party  the  ascendency  in  that  kingdom,  and  James's 
cause  seemed  hopeless.  On  receiving  the  news 
of  this  victory,  in  which  William  totally  routed 
James's  army,  Mary  thus  represented'the  feelings 
of  her  heart : 

"  How  to  begin  this  letter  I  do  not  know,  or 
how  ever  to  render  God  thanks  enough  for  his 
mercy  ;  my  heart  is  so  full  of  joy  and  acknow- 
ledgement to  that  great  God  who  has  preserved 
you,  and  given  you  such  a  victory,  that  I  am 
unable  to  explain  it.  I  was  yesterday  out  of  my 
senses  with   trouble — I  am  now  almost  so  with 

«  When  lord  Nottingham  brought  me  your 
jotter  yesterday,  I  could  not  hold,  so  he  saw  me 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES*  140 

cry,  #  which  I  have  hindered  myself  from  before 
every  body  till  then,  when  it  was  impossible  ;  and 
this  morning,  when  I  heard  the  joyful  news  from 
Mr.  Butler,  I  was  in  pain  to  know  what  was  be- 
come of  tbe  late  king,  and  durst  not  ask  him  ;  but 
when  lord  Nottingham  came,  I  did  venture  to  do 
it,  and  I  had  the  satisfaction  to  know  he  was  safe. 
I  know  I  need  not  beg  you  to  let  him  be  taken 
care  of,  for  I  am  confident  you  will  for  your  own 
sake;  yet  add  that  to  all  your  kindness,  and,  for 
my  sake,  let  people  know  you  would  have  no  hurt 
come  to  his  person — forgive  me  this.'7 

The  news  of  William's  success  no  sooner  ar- 
rived in  England  than  the  people's  spirits,  which 
were  before  so  much  depressed,  were  immedi- 
ately raised.  William  became  extremely  popu- 
lar. The  queen  took  advantage  of  the  favour- 
able current,  and  in  order  to  save  the  honour  of 
national  courage,  which  had  suffered  by  the  late 
engagement  at  sea,  committed  lord  Torrington  to 
the  tower.  She  ordered  the  Dutch  ships  to  bo 
repaired  at  the  expense  of  the  English  ;  their 
wounded  seamen  were  taken  care  of  in  the  hospi- 
tals ;  pensions  were  given  to  the  widows  and  chil- 
dren of  those  who  died  in  the  battle;  and  conduct- 
money to  the  seamen  vhose  ships  had  been  burn- 
ed, which  led  them  to  carry  accounts  to  their 
countrymen  of  the  noble  disposition  of  that  na- 
tion, for  which  they  had  suffered. 

Mary  continued  to  act  with  vigour  for  the  sup- 
port of  the  nation  till  William's  return.  The 
following  letter  to  him  shews  her  humble  opinion 
of  herself,  and  her  attachment  to  her  husband  : 

"  You  may  believe  I  shall  do  as  much  as  lies 
in  my  power  to  follow  your  directions  in  all  things 

*  When  king  William  was  wounded. 
N  2 


HISTORICAL  SKETCHES* 


whatever,  and  am  never  so  easy  as  when  I  have 
them.  Judge  then  what  a  joy  it  was  to  me  to 
have  your  approbation  of  my  behaviour  ;  and 
the  kind  way  you  expressed  it  in,  is  the  only 
comfort  I  can  possibly  have  in  your  absence  j 
what  other  people  tell  me  I  ever  suspect,  but  when 
you  tell  me  I  have  done  well,  I  could  be  almost 
vain  upon  it." 

Her  anxiety  to  promote    the  cause  of  religic:: 
appears  by  the  following  letter  to  William  : 

"  I  have  been  desired  also  to  beg  you  not  to 
he  too  quick  in  parting  with  confiscated  estates, 
but  consider  whether  you  will  not  keep  some  foi 
public  schools,  to  instruct  the  •  poor  Irish.  For 
my  part,  I  must  needs  say,  that  I  think  you  would 
do  very  well  if  you  would  consider  what  care 
can  be  taken  of  the  poor  souls  there  ;  and  indeed, 
if  you  give  me  leave,  I  must  tell  you,  I  think  the 
wonderful  deliverance  and  success  you  have  had 
should  oblige  you  to  think  upon  doing  what  you. 
can  for  die  advancement  of  true  religion  and  pro- 
noting  the  gospel.7'* 

William,  upon  his  return  from  Ireland,  was  re- 
ceived with  joy  by  the  people,  and  Mary  retired 
from  the  management  of  public  affairs,  to  the 
milder  enjoyment  of  domestic  happiness  ;  in 
which  retirement  she  still  continued  to  set  as 
bright  an  example  to  the  nation  as  she  had  before 
den?  in  public  life.  She  endeavoured  to  reform 
me  manne-/3  of  the  ladies  about  the  court,  for 
;^reat  irregularities  had  been  committed  during 
the  two  preceding  reigns.  Her  deportment  was 
pei  fec'.ly  prudent,  yet  unrestained  ;  and  she  was 
so  animated  with  a  natural  cheerfulness  of  dispo- 
sition, and  she  set  religion  and  virtue  in  so  amia- 
ble a  liuht,  that  she  freed    the  court  from  I 


HISTORICAL  SKETCHES,  151 

intrigues  and  immoralities  which  had  so  long  been 
a  scandal  to  the  nation. 

But  the  adored  queen  of  the  English  nation  had 
but  "a-very  short  time  allotted  her  to  influence  the 
world  by  her  example.  She  was  seized  with  the 
small-pox.  Her  illness  was  soon  judged  to  be 
fatal  :  the  king,  on  hearing  that  the  queen  was 
past  all  hope  of  recovery,  called  bishop  Burner 
into  his  closet,  burst  into  tears,  and  exclaimed, 
"  From  the  happiest,  I  am  now  going  to  be  the 
most  miserable  creature  upon  earth.  During  the 
whole  course  of  my  life,  I  have  never  known  one 
single  fault  in  her;  there  is  a  worth  in  her  which 
nobody  knows  besides  myself."  While  she  re- 
mained alive  he  was  in  great  agonies,  fainting  and 
bursting  into  loud  lamentations. 

She  expired  in  the  thirty  third  year  of  her  age, 
and  the  sixth  of  her  reign.  After  her  death,  the 
king's  spirits  were  so  depressed,  that  it  was  appre- 
hended he  would  not  long  survive  her. 

Mary  was  a  rare  instance  of  a  person,  who  was 
the  next  heir  to  a  crown,  who  had  abilities  re- 
quisite to  fill  that  exalted  station,  and  yet  was  so 
entirely  devoid  of  ambition,  as  not  to  appear  even 
desirous  of  being  the  first  person  in  the  kingdom. 
Conjugal  affection  seems  to  have  been  the  ruling 
principle  of  her  life.  The  only  part  of  her  cha- 
racter which  can  be  called  in  question,  is  the  tak- 
ing part  against  her  father.  But  it  may  surely 
be  allowed  as  her  justification,  that  her  regard 
for  her  religion,  and  for  the  liberties  of  the  nation, 
might  make  her  think  this  step  necessary  and 
lawful.  And  it  is  to  be  lamented,  that  she  was 
placed  hi  so  critical  a  situation,  that  she  must 
either  have  joined  her  father  against  her  husband, 
her  religion,  and  the  liberty  ol  h^r  native  country 
-—or  have  joined  her  husband,  her  religion,  and 
liberty,  against  her  father. 


i5^  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

The  character  of  this  great  and  amiable  queen 
has  been  often  drawn,  but  by  none  more  ably 
than  by  Mr.  Boyer.^ 

"  Her  person  was  tall  and  well  proportioned  ; 
her  shape,  while  princess  of  Orange,  easy  and 
genteel ;  her  visage  oval,  her  eyes  quick  and  lively, 
and  the  rest  of  her  features  regular.  Her  stately 
port  and  native  air  of  greatness,  commanded  res- 
pect from  the  most  confident ;  but  her  sweet  and 
graceful  countenance  tempered  the  awfulness  of 
majesty,  and  her  affable  temper  encouraged  the 
most  timorous  to  approach  her. 

u  Her  apprehensions  were  clear  and  ready,  he: 
memory  exact,  and  her  judgement  steady  and 
solid  ;  her  soul  free  from  all  the  weaknesses  of 
her  own  sex,  and  endowed  with  the  courage  and 
strength  that  seemed  peculiar  to  ours.  She  was 
neither  elated  with  prosperity,  nor  Rejected  by- 
adversity  ;  and  it  remains  undecided,  whether 
she  bore  with  more  temper  the  smiles  or  the 
frowns  of  fortune  ! 

a  When  the  necessity  of  affairs  called  the  king 
out  of  his  dominions,  she  alone  was  sensible  of 
his  absence,  which  she  fully  supplied  to  these 
three  kingdoms,  by  her  wise  and  prudent  admin- 
istration. While  he  went  abroad  as  the  arbiter 
of  Europe,  to  wage  a  just  war,  she  staid  at  home, 
to  maintain  peace  and  administer  justice.  He 
was  to  oppose  and  conquer  enemies  ;  she  to  main- 
tain and  gain  friends.  In  all  this  there  was  an 
union  of  their  thoughts,  and  a  concurrence  in  the 
sam^firnds,  the  safety  of  Europe  the  support  of 
the  protestant  religion,  and  the  honour  and  pros- 
perity of  England.  An  eagerness  of  command 
was  so  far  below  her,  that  never  was  so  great  a 

*  See  Rapin's  History  of  England,  vol.  xlv.  p.  146- 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES,  l5d 

capacity  for  government  joined  with  so  little  ap- 
petite to  it;  or  an  authority  so  unwillingly  assum- 
ed, so  modestly  managed,  and  so  cheerfully  laid 
down.  It  was  easy  for  her  to  reward,  for  all 
sorts  of  bounty  flowed  readily  from  her  ;  but  it  was 
much  harder  for  her  to  punish,  except  when  the 
nature  of  the  crime  made  mercy  become  a  cruelty, 
for  then  she  was  inexorable. 

"  She  had  the  most  active  zeal  for  the  public, 
and^  the  most  constant  desire  of  doing  good, 
joined  with  such  unaffected  humility,  that  the  se- 
cret flatteries  of  vanity  or  self-love  had  no  power 
over  her  ;  for,  when  due  acknowledgements  were 
made,  or  decent  things  said  upon  occasions  that 
well  deserved  them,  these  seemed  scarce  to  be 
heard,  and  she  presently  turned  off  the  discourse 
to  other  subjects. 

"  Her  piety  and  virtue  were  real  and  unaffect- 
ed ;  and  the  vivacity  and  sweetness  of  her  tem- 
per and  conversation  softened  all  those  disagree- 
able ideas,  which  the  world  is  too  willing  too  en- 
tertain of  the  severities  of  virtue,  and  of  the 
strictness  of  true  religion. 

"  She  was  not  content  with  being  devout  her- 
self, but  she  infused  piety  into  all  who  came  near 
her;  especially  those  whom  she  took  into  her 
more  immediate  care,  and  whom  she  sudied  to 
form  with  the  tenderness  and  watchfulness  of  a 
mother-  She  charmed  them  with  her  instructions, 
as  she  overcame  them  with  her  kindness.  Never 
was  mistress  both  feared  and  loved  so  entirely  as 
she  was.  She  scattered  books  of  instruction  round 
about  her,  that  such  as  waited  might  not  be  con- 
demned to  idleness,  but  might  entertain  them- 
selves, usefully,  when  they  wTere  in  their  turns  of 
attendance* 


lo4<  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

a  She  had  a  sublime  idea  of  the  christian  rcli 
gion  in  general,  and  a  particular  affection  to  the 
church  of  England,  but  an  affection  that  was  nei- 
ther blind  nor  partial.  She  had  a  true  regard  to 
piety  wherever  she  saw  it,  in  whatever  form  or 
party  soever.  Her  education  and  judgement  led 
her  to  the  national  communion;  but  her  charity, 
was  extended  to  all.  She  longed  to  see  all  pro- 
tectants both  at  home  and  abroad,  in  a  close  and 
brotherly  conjunction  ;  and  few  things  ever  griev- 
ed her  more  than  the  prospect  of  so  desired  an 
union  vanished  out  of  sight. 

"  Access  to  her  was  never  obstructed  by  self- 
interested  supercilious  domestics.  She  made  those 
her  favourites,  who  made  the  distressed  theirs. 
She  wondered  that  the  true  pleasure  which  accom- 
panied doing  good,  did  not  engage  princes  to  pur- 
sue it  more  effectual!}'.  Without  this  she  thought 
that  a  private  life  was  the  happier,  as  well  as  the 
safer  state.  When  reflections  were  once  made 
before  her  of  the  sharpness  of  some  historians, 
who  had  left  heavy  imputations  on  the  memory 
of  some  princes,  she  answered,  "  That  if  those 
princes  were  such  as  the  historians  represented 
them,  they  had  well  deserved  that  treatment  ; 
and  others,  who  tread  their  steps,  might  look  for 
the  same,  for  truth  would  be  told  at  last.1'  Her 
charity  was  not  confined  to  her  own  subjects,  but 
extended  in  a  most  particular  manner  to  multi- 
tudes of  French  exiles,  whom  persecution  sent 
hither.  The  scattered  Vaudois  had  a  share  in 
her  bounty;  and  when,  by  the  king's  intercession, 
restored  to  their  vailies,  they  were  enabled  by  the 
queen  to  transmit  their  faith  to  posterity.  And 
the  last  great  project  that  her  thoughts  were 
working  on,  with  a  relation  to  a  noble  and  ro3Tal 
provision  for  disabled  seamen  at  Greenwich,  was* 


HISTORICAL  SKETCHES.  155 

particularly  designed  to  be  so  constituted ,  as  to 
put  them  in  a  probable  way  of  ending  their  day? 
in  the  fear  of  God. 

"  She  was  a  perfect  example  of  conjugal  love, 
chastity  and  obedience.  She  set  her  husband's 
will  before  her  as  the  rule  of  her  life.  Her  admi- 
ration of  him  made  her  submission  not  only  easy, 
but  delightful ;  and  it  is  remarkable,  that  when 
Dr.  Tennison,  named  to  be  archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury, went  to  comfort  the  king,  his  majesty 
answered,  "  that  he  could  not  but  grieve,  since 
he  had  lost  a  wife,  who  in  seventeen  years,  had 
never  been  guilty  of  any  indiscretion." 

u  The  openness  of  her  behaviour  was  subject  to 
univefsa!  observation,  but  under  such  regularity 
of  conduct,  that  those,  who  knew  her  best,  or  saw 
her  oftenest,  could  never  discover  her  thoughts 
further  than  she  herself  had  a  mind  to  reveal 
them  ;  and  this  she  managed  so,  that  no  distrust 
was  shewn  in  it,  nor  distaste  given  by  it. 

"She  maintained  sincerity  so  entirely,  that  she 
never  once  needed  explanations  to  justify  either 
her  words  or  actions.  As  she  would  never  de- 
ceive others,  so  she  avoided  the  saying  of  any 
thing  that  might  give  them  occasion  to  deceive 
themselves.  And  when  she  did  not  intend  to 
promise,  she  took  care  to  explain  her  meaning  so 
critically,  that  fruitless  hopes  might  not  be  concei- 
ved from  general  words  of  favour. 

"  Her  age  and  her  rank  had  denied  her  oppor- 
tunities for  much  study,  yet  she  had  read  the  best 
hooks  in  English,  French  and  Dutch,  the  'three 
languages  that  were  almost  equally  familiar  to 
her.  She  gave  the  most  of  her  retired  hours  to 
the  reading  of  the  Scriptures,  and  of  books  relat- 
ing to  them.  Next  to  the  best  subjects,  she  bes- 
towed ^nost  of  her  time  in  books  of  history,  espe- 


156  HISTORICAL    SKETCHES. 

cially  of  the  latter  ages,  and  particularly  of  her 
own  kingdoms,  as  being  the  most  proper  to  give 
her  useful  instructions.  She  had  a  great  relish, 
as  well  as  a  great  love  for  poetry,  but  loved  it  best 
when  it  was  conversant  about  divine  and  moral 
subjects  ;  and  she  would  often  express  her  concern 
for  the  defilement  of  the  English  stage. 

"  She  had  no  relish  for  those  indolent  diversions 
which  are  too  common  consumers  of  most  people's 
time,  and  which  make  as  great  wastes  on  their 
minds,  as  they  do  on  their  fortunes.  If  she  used 
them  sometimes,  it  was  only  in  compliance  with 
forms,  because  she  was  unwilling  to  seem  to  cen- 
sure others  with  too  harsh  a  severity.  She  gave 
her  minutes  of  leisure  with  the  greatest  delight 
to  architecture  and  gardening.  She  had  no  other 
inclination,  besides  this,  to  any  diversions  that 
were  expensive ;  and  since  this  employed  many 
hands,  she  was  pleased  to  say,  "  that  she  hoped 
it  would  be  forgiven  her."  When  her  eyes  were 
endangered  by  reading  too  much,  and  in  all  those 
hours  that  were  not  given  to  better  employments, 
she  wrought  with  her  own  hands,  and  that  some- 
times with  so  constant  a  diligence,  as  if  she  had 
been  to  get  her  living  by  it.  It  was  a  new  sight, 
(and  such  an  one  as  was  made  by  some  the  sub- 
ject of  raillery)  to  see  a  queen  work  so  many 
hours  in  a  day.  But  she  used  to  say,  "  that  she 
looked  upon  idleness  as  the  greatest  corrupter  of 
human  nature.  That  if  the  mind  had  no  employ- 
ment given  it,  it  would  create  some  of  the  worst 
sort  to  itself."  Her  example  soon. wrought  on 
not  only  those  who  belonged  to  her,  but  the  \yhole 
kingdom  to  follow  it  ;  so  that  it  was  become  as 
much  the  fashion  among  the  ladies  of  quality  to 
work,  as  it  had  been  formerly  to  be  idle- 


HISTORICAL   SKETCHES.  IV?" 

'■'-  She  thought  it  a  barbarous  diversion  which 
resulted  from  the  misfortunes,  imperfections,  or 
follies  of  others  ;  and  she  scarce  expressed  a 
more  entire  satisfaction  in  any  sermon,  than  inth&t 
of  archbishop  Tiilotson,  against  evil  speaking  : 
■when  she  thought  some  were  guilty  of  it,  she 
would  ask  them,  "  if  they  had  read  rfiat  senjSbn?" 
which  was  understood  to  be  a  reprimand,  though 
in  the  softest  manner.  She  had  indeed  one  of 
the  blessings  of  virtue,  that  docs  not  always  ac- 
company it,  for  she  was  as  free  from  censures,  as 
she  was  from  deserving  them. 

"  She  received  the  intimations  of  approaching 
death,  with  an  entire  resignation  to  the  will  of 
God  ;  and  when  in  the  closest  struggle  with  the 
king  of  terrors,  she  preserved  a  perfect  tranquil- 
lity. The  melancholy  sighs  of  all  who  came  near 
her,  could  not  discompose  her.  She  then  declar- 
ed, "  that  she  felt  the  joys  of  a  good  conscience, 
and  the  power  of  religion,  giving  her  support, 
which  even  the  last  agonies  could  not  shake. '- 
She  received  the  sacrament  with  a  devotion  that 
mftamed  as  well  as  melted  all  who  saw  it  ;  and 
then  quietly  concluded  a  life  that  had  been  led 
through  a  variety  of  accidents  with  a  constant 
equality  of  temper.  To  sum  up  all,  she1  was  a 
tender  wife,  a  kind  friend,  a  gentle  mistress,  a 
f,;ood  christian,  and  one  of  the  best  of  women." 


lRIE    ANTOINETTE. 

THE  unfortunate  Marie  Antoinette,  consort 
©f  the  equally  unfortunate  Louis  XVI .  king  of 
France,  was  sister  to  the  late  emperor  of  Germa- 
ny.    Thev  were  married  vUUe  Lol-iis  was   dan- 


158  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES- 

phin  ;  and,  on  their  accession-to  the  throne,  wee? 
idolized  by  the  people  for  that  mild  condescension 
of  manners  which  induced  them  to  forego  much 
of  the  etiquette  of  royalty,  and  mingle  familiarly 
with  their  subjects.  The  queen,  in  particular,  a 
beautiful  young  woman,  the  pride  of  the  house  of 
Austria  launched  too  precipitately  into  the  vortex 
of  pleasure,  consulting  less  the  dignity  of  her 
exalted  situation  than  the  vain  gratification  of  a 
perpetual  thirst  after  gaiety,  and  those  frivolous 
amusements,  which,  in  time,  enervate  the  noblest 
hearts,  and  stamp  the  foundation  of  the  sternest 
virtue.  A  momentous  lesson,  this,  to  the  sove- 
reigns of  Europe  !  who  might  expect  similar  ef- 
fects to  result  from  similar  causes  ;  and  a  no  less 
salutary  caution  to  the  subordinate  ranks  of  so- 
ciety, who  are  not  likely  to  escape  unhurt,  by  the 
inordinate  desire  of  seeking  a  meretricious  feli- 
city, in  those  flowery  paths  of  pleasure,  where 
lurk  the  concealed  serpents,  whose  deadly  fangs 
have  so  unpityingly  lacerated  royalty. 

How  far  this  ill-fated  queen  was  lead  to  tran- 
gress  the  bounds  of  decorum,  we  hare  no  mate- 
rials on  which  we  can  rely,  that  enable  ifs  to  judge. 
The  fabrication  of  the  many  gross  calumnies, 
published  against  her  character,  by  the  most  de- 
praved of  the  human  species,  bear  internal  evi- 
dence of  the  vileness  and  atrocity  of  their  au- 
thors, whose  detestable,  minds  are  capable  of  the 
most  diabolical  suggestions,  and  who  are,  there- 
fore, not  entitled  to  the  smallest  degree  of  credi- 
bility. In  the  relaxed  morals  of  the  court  of 
France,  and  the  feminine  degeneracy  and  dissi- 
pation of  the  whole  nation,  we  have,  probably, 
the  true  causes  of  all  the  miseries  with  which  that 
devoted  country  has  been  overwhelmed. 


HISTORICAL    SKETCHES.  159 

The  queen  certainly  degraded  herself,  by  emu- 
rating  opera  performers  ;  and  by  suffering  those 
to  become  her  companions  who  were  of  reproach* 
able  characters.  It  is  sufficient  for  virtue  if  she 
pities,  but  she  ought  never  to  countenance  vice. 
It  is  probable,  however,  that  a  mere  excess  of 
good  nature  impelled  the  queen  to  associate  with 
those  whom  she  found  it  necessary  to  consult  re- 
specting her  favourite  fetes,  and  other  trivial 
amusements.  She  sought  to  secure  happini 
herself;  she  sought  to  diffuse  it  among  the  people; 
hut  unhappily  she  sought  it  not  solely  in  that  tran- 
quil and  retired  path  of  domestic  virtue,  where  all 
that  is  to  be  met  with  on  earth.,  can  aicnebc  £u\.md  ; 
in  the  pure  affection  of  a  beloved  husband,  and  in 
the  chaste  endearments  of  a  lovely  and  innocent 
offspring,  trained  up  to  piety  and  virtue.  This 
seems  to  have  beea  the  grand  error  of  her  life. 
She  loved  her  husband,  and  she  loved  her  chil- 
dren ;  but  sought  not,  in  their  society  alone,  her 
chief  happiness* 

There  are  various  well  authenticated  anecdotes, 
of  the  queen's  feelings  and  humanity  ;  of  the  ma- 
ny gross  and  indelicate  charges  against  her,  there 
aeems  no  one  positive  proof.  On  her  true  character 
the  page  of  a  future  historian  must  decide  ; 
when  prejudices  shall  have  been  mowed  down  by 
the  scythe  of  ^ime  ;  and  when  friendly  pity  for 
her  sufferings,  which  must  long  fill  every  virtuous 
bosom,  and  render  humid  every  eye,  at  the  shock- 
ing recital,  shall  sufficiently  subside,  to  yield  truth 
the  powers  of  giving  the  sad  tale  faithfully  to  pos- 
terity. In  the  mean  time,  we  make  no  scruple  to 
assert  that  the  charges  under  which  both  herself 
and  her  august  consort  were  condemned  to  the  ig- 
nominous  death  they  so  shamefully  suffered, 
.constituted  the  vilest  mockery  of  justice  that  evrr 


PoO  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

was  exhibited  among  a  people  pretending  to  the 
smallest  degree  of  civilization.  And  that  no- 
thing against  her  morals  was  exhibited  on  her 
trial,  except  the  incredible  story  respecting  her 
infant  son,  a  child  scarcely  eight  years,  of  age, 
and  which  no  human  being  ever  believed,  is  a 
most  powerful  argument  in  favour  of  the  queen's 
actual  virtue* 

After  suffering  a  long  and  cruel  imprisonment  ; 
having  seen  a  beloved  husband  led  to  the  scaffold  ; 
been  deprived  of  the  sole  remaining  consolation, 
by  a  brutal  separation  from  her  children,  and  in- 
sulted by  the  solemn  mockery  of  a  public  trial ; 
<he  was  beheaded  at  Paris,  on  Wednesday,  the 
16th  of  Obtober,  1793,  being  in  her  thirty-eighth 
year.  The  corpse  of  the  ill-fated  queen  was  im- 
mediately buried  in  a  grave  filled  with  quick-lime, 
in  the  church-yard,  called  De  La  Maaelaine\ 
where  her  unfortunate  consort,  Louis  XVI.  had 
been  before  deposited  and  consumed  in  the  same 
manner. 

Mr.  Burke [s  animated  description  of  the  late  Queen 
of  France. 

It  is  now  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  since  I  saw 
the  queen  of  France,  then  the  dauphiness,  at 
Versailles  ;  and  surely  never  lighted  on  this  orb, 
which  she  hardly  seemed  to  touch,  a  more  de- 
lightful vision.  I  saw  her  just  above  the  horizon, 
decorating  and  cheering  the  elevated  sphere,  she 
just  began  to  move  in — glitteringlike  the  morning 
star,  full  of  life,  and  splendor,  and  joy.  Oh, 
what  a  revolution  !  and  what  an.  heart  must  I  have 
to  contemplate,-  without  emotion,  that  elevation, 
and  that  fall  !  Little  did  I  dream,  when  she 
added  titles  of  veneration  to  those  of  enthusias- 
tic, distant  respectful  love,   that  she  should  ever 


HISTORICAL  SKETCHES.,  lG£ 

be  obliged  to  carry  the  sharp  antidote  against  dis- 
grace, concealed  in  that  bosom  ;  little  did  I  dream 
that  I  should  live  to  see  such  disasters  fal- 
len upon  her  in  a  nation  of  gallant  men,  in  a  nation 
of  men  of  honour,  and  of  cavaliers.  I  thought  ten 
thousand  swords  must  have  leaped  from  their 
scabbards,  to  avenge  even  a  look,  that  threatened 
her  with  insult.  But  the  age  of  chivalry  is  gone  ; 
that  of  sophisters,  economists  and  calculators 
has  succeeded  ;  and  the  glory  of  Europe  is  ex- 
tinguished fore-ver.  Never,  never  more,  shall  we 
behold  that  generous  loyalty  to  rank  and  sex  , 
that  proud  submission,  that  dignified  obedience, 
that  subordination  of  the  heart,  which  kept  alive., 
even  in  servitude  itself,  the  spirit  of  an  exalted 
freedom.  The  unbought  grace  of  life,  the  cheap 
defence  of  nations,  the  nurse  of  manly  sentiment 
and  heroic  enterprize,  is  gone!  It  is  gone — that 
sensibility  cf  principle,  that  chastity  of  honour, 
which  felt  a  stain  like  a  wound;  which  inspired 
courage,  while  it  mitigated  ferocity;  which  enno- 
bled whatever  it  touched,  and  under  which,  vice 
itself  lost  half  its   evil.    \:y  losing  all  it^  gross- 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCHES. 


MISS    ELIZA-BETH    SMITH. 

f  HE  "  Fragments  in  prose  and  verse,"  of 
this  extraordinarily  ingenious  and  most  excellent 
young  lady,  have  been  lately  published,  with  some 
account  of  her  life  and  character  ;  and  from  them 
we  extract  the  leading  particulars  illustrative  of 
the  life  and   mind  of  Miss  Smith. 

She  was    born   at  Burnhall,  in  the    county  of 
Durham,  in  December,  1776. 

At  a  very  early  age  she  discovered  that  love 
of  reading,  and  that  close  application  to  whatever 
she  engaged  in,  which  marked  her  character 
through  life.  She  was  accustomed,  when  only 
three  years  old  to  leave  an  elder  brother  and  young- 
er sister  to  play  and  amuse  themselves,  while  she 
eagerly  seized  on  such  books  as  a  nursery  library 
commonly  affords,  and  made  herself  mistress  of 
their  contents.  At  four  years  of  age  she  read 
extremely  well.  What  in  others  is  usually 
the  effect  of  education  and  habit  seemed  born 
with  her.  From  a  very  babe  the  utmost  regula- 
rity was  observable  in  all  her  actions.  Whatever 
she  did  was  ivell  done,  and  with  an  apparent  re- 
flection far  beyond  her  years. 

44  In  the  beginning  of  1782,"  says  Mrs.  Smith, 
"  we  removed  into  a  distant  country,  at  the  earnest 
entreaty  of  a  blind  relation,  and  in  the  following 
year  my  attendance  on  him  becoming  so  necessary 
as  daily  to  engage  several  hours,  at  his  request  I' 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES.       103 

waj  influenced  to  take  a  young  lady,  whom  he 
wished  to  serve  in  consequence  of  her  family  hav- 
ing experienced  some  severe  misfortunes.  This 
lady  was  then  scarcely  sixteen  ;  and  I  expected 
merely  to  have  found  a  companion  for  my  chil- 
dren during  my  absence  ;  but  her  abilities  ex- 
ceeded her  years,  and  she  became  their  governess 
during  our  stay  in  Suffolk,  which  was  about  eigh- 
teen months.  On  the  death  of  my  relation,  in 
1784,  we  returned  to  Biunhall,  and  remained 
there  till  June,  in  the  following  year,  when  wc 
removed  to  Piercefield.  In  the  course  of  the 
preceding  winter  Elizabeth  had  made  an  uncom- 
mon progress  in  music.  From  the  time  of  cur 
quitting  Suffolk,  till  the  spring  of  1786,  my  chil- 
dren had  no  instruction  except  from  myself;  but 
their  former  governess  then  returned  to  me,  snd 
continued  in  the  family  three  years  longer.  By 
her  the  children  were  instructed  in  French,  and 
in  the  little  Italian,  which  she  herself  then  under- 
stood. I  mention  these  particulars  to  prove  how 
very  little  instruction  in  languages  my  daughter 
received,  and  that  the  knowledge  she  afterwards 
acquired  of  them  was  the  effect  of  her  own,  un- 
assisted study. 

"  It  frequently  happens  that  circumstances  ap- 
parently trifling  determine  our  character,  and, 
sometimes,  even  our  fate  in  life.  I  always  thought 
that  Elizabeth  was  first  induced  to  apply  herself 
to  the  study  of  the  learned  languages,  by  acci- 
dentally hearing  that  the  late  Mrs.  Bowdler  ac- 
quired some  knowledge  of  Hebrew  and  Greek, 
purposely  to  read  the  holy  scriptures  in  the  origi- 
nal languages.  In  the  summer  of  1789,  this  most 
excellent  woman,  with  her  youngest  daughter, 
spent  a  month  at  Piercefield,  and  I  have  reason 
to    hail  it  as  one   of  the  happiest  months  of  my 


164-  BIOGRAPHICAL  .SKETCHES. 


life.  From  the  above  men$io*ned  visit  I  date  the 
tarn  of  study,  which  Elizabeth  ever  after  pursued, 
and  which,  I  firmly  believe,  the  amiable  conduct 
of  our  guests  first  led  her  to  delight  in. 

."  At  the  age  of  thirteen,  Elizabeth  became  a 
sort  of  governess  to  her  younger  sisters  ;  for  I 
then  parted  with  the  only  one  I  ever  had,  and 
from  that  time  the  progress  she  made  in  acquiring 
languages,  both  ancient  and  modern,  was  most 
rapid.  This  degree  of  information,  so  unusual 
in  a  woman,  occasioned  no  confusion  in  her  well 
regulated  mind.  She  was  a  living  library  ;  but 
locked  up,  except  to  a  chosen  few.  Her  talents 
were  Mike  bales  unopened  to  the  sun  ;'  and,  from 
a  want  of  communication,  were  not  as  beneficial 
to  others  as  they  might  have  been  ;  for  her  dread 
of  being  called  a  learned  lady,  caused  such  an 
excess  of  modest  reserve,  as  perhaps,  formed  the 
greatest  defect  in  her  character. 

"  When  a  reverse  of  fortune  drove  us  from 
Piercefieid,  my  daughter  had  just  entered  her  se- 
venteen tli  year,  an  age  at  which  she  might  have 
been  supposed  to  have  lamented  deeply  many- 
consequent  privations.  Of  the  firmness  of  her 
mind  on  that  occasion,  no  one  can  judge  better 
than  yourself  ;  for  you  had  an" opportunity  to  ob- 
serve it,  when  immediately  after  the  blow  was 
struck,  you  offered,  from  motives  of  generous 
friendship,  to  undertake  a  charge  which  no  pecu- 
niary considerations  could  induce  you  to  accept  a 
few  months  before.  I  do  not  recollect  a  single 
instance  of  a  murmur  having  escaped  her,  or  the 
least  expression  of  regret  at  what  she  had  lost. 
On  the  pohtrary,  she  always  appeared  contented  ; 
and  particularly  after  our  fixing  at  Coniston,  it 
seemed  a*    if  the   place  and  mode  of  life   wen 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES,       165 

such  as  she  preferred,  and  in  which  she  was  most 
happy. 

"  I  pass  over  in  silence  a  time  in  which  we  had 
no  home  of  our  own,  and  when,  from  the  derang- 
ed state  of  our  affairs,  we  were  indebted  for  one 
to  the  kindness  and  generosity  of  a  friend;  nor 
do  I  .speak  of  the  time  spent  in  Ireland,  when 
following  the  regiment  with  my  husband,  because 
the  want  of  a  settled  abode  interrupted  those  stu- 
dies in  which  my  daughter  most  delighted. — 
Books  are  not  light  of  carriage,  and  the  blow 
which  deprived  us  of  Piercefield,  deprived  us  of 
a  library  also.  But  though  this  period  cf  her 
life  afforded  little  opportunity  for  improvement  in 
science,  the  qualities  of  her  heart  never  appeared 
in  .a  more  amiable  light.  Through  all  the  incon- 
veniencies  which  attended  our  situation  while  liv- 
ing in  barracks,  the  firmness  and  cheerful  resig- 
nation of  her  mind  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  made 
me  blush  for  the  tear  which  too  frequently  trem- 
bled in  my  eye,  at  the  recollection  of  all  the  com- 
forts we  had  lost. 

"  In  October,  1800,  we  left  Ireland,  and  deter- 
mined on  seeking  out  some  retired  situation  in 
England  ;  in  the  hope,  that  by  strict  economy, 
and  with  the^blessing  of  cheerful  contented  minds, 
we  might  yet  find  something  like  comfort ;  which 
the  frequent  change  of  quarters,  with  four  chil- 
dren, and  the  then  insecure  state  of  Ireland,  made 
it  impossible  to  icd^  notwithstanding  the  kind  and 
generous  attention  we  invariably  received  from 
the  hospitable  inhabitants  of  that  country.  We 
passed  the  winter  in  a  cottage  on  the  banks  of  the 
lake  of  Uls water,  and  continued  there  till  the 
May  following,  when  we  removed  to  our  presen: 
residence  at  Coniston.  This  country  had  many 
charms  for  Elizabeth.     She  drew  corrcctlv  from 


166  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES. 

nature/  and  her  enthusiastic  admiration  of  the 
sublime  and  beautiful  often  carried  her  beyond 
the  bounds  of  prudent  precaution,  with  regard  to 
her  health.  Frequently  in  the  summer  she  was 
out  during;  twelve  or  fourteen  hours,  and  in  that 
time  walked  many  miles.  When  she  returned  at 
night  ahc  was  always  more  cheerful  than  usual  ; 
never  said  she  was  fatigued,  and  seldom  appeared 
go.  It  is  astonishing  hew  she  found  time  for  all 
she  acquired  and  all  she  accomplished.  Nothing 
was  neglected.  There  was  a  scrupulous  attention 
to  all  the  min  atis  of  her  sex;  for  her  well  regulated 
mind,  far  from  despising  them,  considered  them 
as  a  part  of  that  system  of  perfection  at  which 
she  aimed  ,*  an  aim  which  was  not  the  result  of 
vanity,  nor  to  attract  the  applause  of  the  world. 
No  human  being  ever  sought  it  less,  or  was  more 
entirely  free  from  conceit  of  every  kind.  The 
approbation  of  God  and  of  her  own  conscience, 
were  the  only  rewards  she  ever  sought. 

"  Her  translation  from  the  book  of  Job  war, 
finished  in  1803.  During  the  two  last  years  of 
her  life,  she  was  engaged  in  translating  from  the 
German,  some  letters  and  papers,  written  by  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Klopstock. 

u  In  the  summer  of  the  year  1305,  Elizabeth 
was  seized  with  a  cold,  which  terminated  in  her 
death  :  and  I  wish  the  cause  was  more  generally 
known,  as  a  caution  to  those  whose  studious  turn 
of  mind  may  lead  them  into  the  same  error,  I 
will  give  the  account  as  she  herself  related  it,  a 
very  short  time  before  she  died,  to  a  faithful  and 
affectionate  servant,  who  first  came  into  the  fa- 
mily when  my  daughter  was  only  six  weeks  old. 

"  One  very  hot  evening  in  July,  I  took  a  book, 
and  walked  about  two  miles  from  home,  where  I 
seated  myself  on  a  stone  beside  the  lake.     Being 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCHES.  167 

much  engaged  by  a  poem  I  was  reading,  I  did  not 

perceive ,  that  the  sun  was  gone  down,  and  was 
succeeded  by  a  very  heavy  dew  :  till  in  a  moment 
I  felt  struck  on  the  chest  as  if  with  a  sharp  knife. 
I  returned  home,  but  said  nothing  of  the  pain. 
The  next  day  being  also  very  hot,  and  every  one 
busy  in  the  hay-field,  I  thought  I  would  take  a 
rake  and  work  very  hard,  to  produce  perspiration, 
in  the  hope  that  it  might  remove  the  pain  :  but 
\t  did  not." 

u  From  that  time  a  bad  cough,  with  occasional 
loss  of  voice  gave  me  great  apprehension*  of  what 
might  be  the  consequence,  if  the  cause  were  net. 
removed  ;  but  no  entreaties  could  prevail  on 
her  to  take  the  proper  remedies,  or  to  refrain 
from  her  usual  walks.  This  she  persisted  in,  be- 
ing sometimes  better  and  then  a  little  worse,  till 
the  beginning  of  October." 

About  this  time  Miss  Smith  accompanied  her 
mother  on  a  visit  to  Bath,  and  thence  to  Sunbury  ; 
but  finding  no  amendment  in  her  health,  they  re- 
turned to  Coniston,  where  Miss  Smith  expired 
on  the  Tib  of  August,  1806,  aged  twenty-nine,, 
and  was  interred  at  Hawkshead. 

The  character  of  Miss  Smith  is  thus  briefly 
summed  up  by  Mrs.  Bowdler,  in  a  letter  to  Di% 
Mumsseii  : 

"  Her  character  was  so  extraordinary,  and  she 
was  so  very  dear  to  me,  that  I  hope  you  will  for» 
o-ive  my  dwelling  a  litrie  longer  on  my  irreparable 
loss.  Her  person  and  manners  were  extremely- 
pleasing,  with  a  pensive  softness  of  countenance 
that  indicated  deep  reflection ;  but  her  extreme 
timidity  concealed  the  most  extraordinary  talentr, 
that  ever  fell  under  my  observation.  With 
scarcely  any  assistance,  she  taught  herself  the 
French,  Italian,  Spanish,  German,  Latin,  Greek, 


16$  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES. 

and  Hebrew  languages.  She  had  no  inconsider- 
able knowledge  of  Arabic  and  Persic.  She  was 
well  acquainted  with  geometry,  algebra  and  other 
branches  of  the  mathematics.  She  was  a  very 
fine  musician.  She  drew  landscapes  from  nature 
extremely  well,  and  was  a  mistress  of  perspec- 
tive. She  showed  an  early  taste  for  poetry,  of 
which  some  specimens  remain  ;  but,  I  believe, 
she  destroyed  most  of  the  effusions  of  her  youth- 
ful muse,  when  an  acquaintance  with  your  great 
poet,  and  still  more,  "when  the  sublime  composi- 
tions of  the  Hebrew  bards  gave  a  different  turn 
to  her  thoughts.  With  all  these  acquirements 
she  was  perfectly  feminine-  in  her  disposition  ; 
elegant,  modest,  gentle  and  affectionate.  Nothing 
was  neglected  which  a  woman  ought  to  know  ;  no 
duty  was  omitted  which  her  situation  jn  life  re- 
quired her  to  perform.  But  the  part  of  her  cha- 
racter on  which  I  dwell  with  the  greatest  satisfac- 
tion, is  that  exalted  piety  which  seemed  always  to 
raise  her  above  this  world,  and  learn  her,  at  six- 
teen years  of  age,  to  resign  its  riches  and  its  plea- 
sures annost  without  regret;  and  to  support  with 
dignity  a  very  unexpected  change  of  situation. 
For  some  years  before  her  death  the  Holy  Scrip- 
ture was  her  principle  study,  and  she  translated 
from  the  Hebrew  the  whole  book  of  Job,  &c.  e^c* 
How  far  she  succeded  in  this  attempt  I  am  not 
qualified  to  judge  ;  but  the  benefit  which  she  her- 
self derived  from  these  studies,  must  be  evident 
to  those  who  witnessed  the  patience  and  resigna- 
tion with  which  she  supported  a  long  and  painful 
illness  ;  the  sweet  attention  which  she  always 
showed  to  the  feelings  of  her  parents  and  friends, 
and  the  heavenly  composure  with  which  she  look- 
ed forward  to  the  awful  change  which  has  row 
remove d  her  to  a  world,  i  where  (as  one  of 


BIOGlUPHICAL    SKETCHES.  169 

friends  observes)  her  gentle,  pure  and  enlightened 
spirit  will  find  itself  more  at  home  than  in  this 
land  of  shadows,  he.  &c. 

To  this  Dr.  M.  replies  in  a  letter,  from  which 
we  select  the  following  paragraph  : 

u  The  account  you  gave  me  in  the  extraordina- 
ry character  of  your  late  angelic  friend,  has 
filled  my  breast  with  admiration  and  awe.  I  have 
read  your  letter  with  tears.  So  many  accomplish- 
ments, natural  and  moral  ;  so  much  of  science, 
erudition  and  eminence  of  rare  talents,  combined 
with  grace,  with  gentleness,  and  all  the  virtues 
that  adorn  a  female  mind !  It  is  wonderful,  and 
cannot  be  enough  admired.  Great,  indeed  must, 
have  been  your  happiness  in  the  possession  of 
this  treasure  !  Alas  !  the  gentle  spirit  that  moved 
her  tender  limbs  is  soon  divested  of  its  mortal 
garment,  and  gone  to  join  its  kindred  angels  ! 

Vattene  in  pace,  Almabeata  e  bella  1" 

But  I  think  her  happy  in  this  our  period  ;  for 
what  can  be  more  fortunate  on  earth  than  to  fall 
into  the  hands  of  the  virtuous,  and,  free  from 
contact  of  a  corrupted  race,  to  make  her  passage 
over  our  unlucky  planet,  pure  and  immaculate, 
and,  with  the  robe  of  innocence,  appear  before 
her  Creator  ?  To  taste  all  the  sweets  of  science 
and  art,  and  having  satisfied  all  honest  desires, 
remove  from  the  feast  of  life  with  gratitude — 
"  Tis  a  consummation  devoutly  to  be  wished." 


ANNA  MARIA  SCHURMAN. 

THE  learned  and  ingenious  Anna  Maria  Schur- 
man  was  born  at  Cologn,  Nov.  5th,  1607.     Her 


170  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES. 

parents  were  descended  from  noble  protestant  fa- 
milies.    Anna  Maria  discovered  from  her  early 
childhood  extraordinary  ingenuity.    At  six  years 
of  age,  she  cut,  with  her  scissars,  without  pattern 
or  model,  a  variety  of  curious  figures  in  paper.— 
Two  years  afterwards,  she  learned  in  a  few  days 
to  design   flowers  with  great   perfection  ;   and  in 
her  eleventh  year,  acquired,  in  three  hours,  the 
art  of    embroidering.     She    afterwards   received 
instructions  in  music,  in  painting,  in    sculpture, 
and  in  engraving  ;   in  all  of  which  she  was  admi- 
rably successful.    It  is  observed,  by  Mr.  Evelyn, 
in  his    History   of  Calcography,  "  that   the  very 
knowing  Anna  Maria  Schurman  is  skilled  in  this 
art,  with  innumerable  others,  even  for  a  prodigy 
of  her  sex  !"     Her   hand-writing,  specimens  of 
which  have  been  preserved  by  the  curious  in  their 
cabinetsv was  in  all  languages  inimitably  beautiful. 
Mr.  Joby,  in  his  journey  to  Munster,  speaks  of 
the  beauty  of  her  penmanship  in  Greek,  Hebrew, 
Syriac,  Arabic,  and  French,  of  which  he  had  been 
an  eye-witness  :   he  also  mentions  her  skill  in  mi- 
niature painting ;  and  in  drawing,  with  the  point 
of  a  diamond,  portraits  upon  glass  :   she  painted 
her  own  picture.     She  possessed  the  art  of  imi- 
tating pearls,  which    could   not   be  distinguished 
from    the  originals,  but  by  piercing  them  .with  a 
needle. 

The  powers  of  her  understanding  were  hot  in- 
ferior to  her  ingenuity.  At  eleven  years  of  age, 
being  occasionally  present  at  the  lessons  of  her 
brothers,  she  frequently  set  them  right,  by  a  whis- 
per when  examined  in  their  Latin  exercises.— 
Her  father,  observing  her  genius  for  literature, 
resolved  to  cultivate  a  capacity  so  uncommon  : 
a  foundation  was  thus  laid  for  her  future  acquire- 
ments.    Her  proficiency  in  the  Hebrew,  Greek, 


BIOGRAPHICAL     SKETCHES.  171 

and  Latin  languages,  in  which  she  wrote  and 
spoke- fluently,  astonished  the  learned.  She  made 
great  progress  also  in  the  Oriental  languages,  the 
Arabic,  Ethiopic,  Chaldee,  and  Syriac.  With 
the  living  languages,  English,  Italian,  and  French, 
she  was  not  less  conversant.  She  studied  the 
sciences  with  equal  success,  geography,  astrono- 
my, and  physics.  Her  temper  having  early  ac- 
quired a  devotional  cast,  she  at  length  exchanged 
for  theology  the  more  liberal  pursuit  of  learning. 
Her  father  had,  during  her  infancy,  settled  at 
Utrecht,  whence,  for  the  improvement  of  his 
children,  he  moved  to  Franeker  ;  where,  in  1623, 
he  died.  On  this  event,  his  widow  returned  to 
Utrecht,  where  Anna  Maria  continued  to  devote 
herself  to  her  studies.  Her  predilection  for  let- 
ters prevented  her  from  engaging  in  more  active 
life,  and  induced  her  to  decline  an  advantageous 
establishment.  Mr.  Cots,  pensionary  of  Holland, 
and  a  celebrated  poet,  who  when  she  was  only 
fourteen  years  of  age,  had  written  verses  in  her 
praise,  offered  her  his  hand  and  heart. 
-  .Her  modesty,  no  less  singular  than  her  know- 
ledge, rendered  her  desirous  of  burying  her  ac- 
quirements in  obscurity  :  It  was  in  despite  of  her 
inclination  that  Rivetus,  Spanheim,  and  Vossius, 
brought  her  forward  to  notice.  To  these  may  be 
added,  Salmassius,  Huvgens,  and  Beverovicius 
who  holding  with  her  a  literary  correspondence, 
spread  her  fame  through  foreign  countries.  Her 
reputation,  thus  extended,  procured  her  letters 
from  Balzac,  Gassendi,  Mercennus,  Rochart, 
Contart,  and  other  men  of  eminence  :  while  she 
wras  visited  by  princesses,  and  persons  of  the  first 
distinction,  cardinal  Richelieu  also  honoured  her 
with  marks  of  hisesteem. 


17>2  BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCHES. 

About  the  year  1650,  her  religious  sentiments 
underwent  a  revolution.  Having  declined  atten- 
dance on  public  worship,  she  performed  her  de- 
votions in  private.  It.  was  reported  that  she 
meant  to  embrace  popery.  The  truth  was,  she 
had  attached  herself  to  Labadie,  the  celebrated 
quietest,  whose  principles  she  embraced,  and 
whom  she  accompanied  wherever  he  went.  She 
resided  with  him  for  some  time  at  Altona,  in 
Holstein,  where  she  attended  him  at  his  death,  in 
1674.  She  retired  afterwards  to  Wierwart,  in 
Frieland,  where  she  was  visited  by  William  Penn, 
in  1677.  She  died  at  Wiewart,  the  following 
year,  May  5th,  1678. 


MRS.  ELIZABETH  FERGUSON. 

BY  DOCTOR  RUSH. 

MRS.  ELIZABETH  FERGUSON  was  the 

daughter  of  Dr.  Thomas  Graeme,  by  Anne,  the 
daughter  of  Sir  William  Keith,  then  governor 
of  Pennsylvania.  Her  father  was  a  native  ol 
Scotland,  and  a  graduate  in  medicine.  For  nearly 
half  a  century  he  maintained  the  first  rank  in  his 
profession  in  the  city  of  Philadelphia.  He  held, 
during  the  great  part  of  this  time,  the  office  of 
collector  of  the  port.  Her  mother  possessed  a 
masculine  mind,  with  all  those  female  charms  and 
accomplishments  which  render  a  woman  alike 
agreeable  to  bo:h  sexes.  They  had  one  son  and 
three  daughters,  all  of  whom  attained  to  the  age 
of  maturity.  The  subject  of  this  memoir  was  the 
youngest  of  them.  She  discovered,  in  early  life, 
signs  of  uncommon  talents  and  virtue,  both  of 
which  were  cultivated  with  great  care,  and  chiefly 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES.       173 

by  her  mother.  Her  person  was  slender  and  her 
health  delicate.  The  latter  was  partly  the  effect 
of  native  weakness,  being  a  seven  month's  child, 
and  partly  acquired  by  too  great  application  to 
books.  She  passed  her  youth  in  the  lap  of  pa- 
rental affection.  A  pleasant  and  highly  improved 
retreat,  known  by  the  name  of  Graane  Park,  in 
Montgomery  county,  twenty  miles  from  Philadel- 
phia, in  which  her  parents  spent  their  summers, 
afforded' her  the  most  delighttul  cpportunties  for 
study,  meditation,  rural  walks  and  pleasures,  and, 
above  all,  for  cultivating  a  talent  for  poetry.  This 
retreat  was,  moreover,  consecrated  to  society  and 
friendship.  A  plentiful  table  was- spread  daily 
for  visitors,  and  two  or  three  young  ladies  from 
Philadelphia  generally  partook  with  Aliss  Graeme 
of  the  enjoyments  which  her  situation  in  the 
country  furnished.  About  her  seventeenth  year 
she  v.  sed   by  a  citizen  of  Philadelphia 

of  repeet  rneciions  and   character.      She 

heart,  with  the  promise  of  her  band, 
upon  his  return  from  London,  whither  he  went 
to    c<  ation    in   the   law.      From, 

lich  it  is  not  nece?  3  ay.  to  detail,  the  con- 
tract-of  marriage,  at  a  future  ejaj ,  v.as  broken  ; 
but  iv  suffering   oh  the    part   of 

Miss    Graeme.     To  relieve  and  divert  her  mind 

she  translated  the 
whole  of    Tdemachus   into    English   verse ;   but 
•,  perhaps  aided  the  distress 
of  her   disappointment,  in  imparing  her   health, 
icii  a  degree  as  to  induce  her  father, 
in    conjunction  with  two  other  physicians,  to  ad- 
vise a  voyage  to  England  for  its  recovery.      Hxr 
mother  concurred  in  this  advice,  In  it  for  another 
esides  that   of  restoring    her  daughter's 
health.    r.  le  and  excellent  woman  had 


174  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES. 

long  laboured  under  a  disease  which,  she  believed, 
would  have  a  fatal  issue*  She  anticipated  the 
near  approach  of  death  ;  and  that  it  might  be 
less  terrible  to  her,  she  wished  her.  daughter  to 
be  removed  beyond  the  sphere  of  the  counter  at- 
traction of  her  affections  from  the  world  of  spirits, 
which  her  presence  near  her  deathbed  would  ex- 
cite. This  feeling  is  not  a  solitary  or  casual  one, 
in  the  human  mind.  Archbishop  Lightfoot  wish- 
ed to  die  from  home,  that  he  might  dissolve  more 
easily  his  ties  to  his  family.  A  lady  in  Philadel- 
phia, some  years  ago,  in  her  last  moments,  said  to 
her  daughter,  who  sat  weeping  at  her  bedside, 
f*  leave  me,  my  child  ;  I  cannot  die  while  you 
are  in  the  room."'  Many  instances  of  similar 
conflicts  between  religion  and  nature  have  occur- 
red in  domestic  history,  which  have  escaped  ge- 
neral observation. 

Mrs.  Graeme  died,  according  to  her  expecta- 
tions and  wishes,  during  her  daughter's  absence, 
leaving  behind  her  two  farewell  letters  to  be  de- 
livered to  her  upon  her  return  ;  one,  upon  the 
choice  of  a  husband,  and  the  other  upon  the  ma- 
nagement of  a  family.  These  letters  contain 
many  original  ideas,. .and  the  most  ardent  expres- 
sions of  maternal  affection.  The  tenor  of  these 
expressions  may  easily  be  conceived  by  the  fol- 
lowing sentence  extracted  from  the  introduction 
to  one  of  them.  h*  I  have  rested  for  some  time 
with  my  pen  in  my  hand,  from  being  at  a  loss  to 
find  out  an  epithet  to  address  you  with,  that  shall 
fully  express  my  affection  for  you.  After  a  good 
deal  of  deliberation,!  can  find  nothing  that  pleases 
me  better  than i  my  own  dear  Betsy."* 

*  Mrs.  Graeme  left  letters  to  several  of  her  friends, 
to  be  delivered  to  them  after  her  death.    The  follow- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES.  175 

Miss  Gneme  spent  a  year  in  England,  where 
she  was  accompanied  by  the  Kevv  Dr.  Richard  Pe- 
ters of  Philadelphia,  a  gentleman  of  bighly-pol^sh- 
ed  manners,  and  whose  rank,  enabled  him  to  intro- 
duce her  to  the  most  respectable  circles  of  com- 
pany. She  sought  and  was  sought  for,  by  the 
most  celebrated  literary  gentlemen  who  flourished 
in  England  at  the  time  of  the  accession  of  George 
ihe  Third  to  the  throne.  She  was  introduced  to 
this  monarch  and  particularly  noticed  by  him* 
The  celebrated  Dr.  FothergiiJ,  whom  she  con- 
sulted as  a  physician,  became  her  friend  and  cor- 
respondent as  long  as  she  lived.  An  accident  at- 
tachedthe  sentimental  and  then  popular  author  of* 
Tristram  Shandy  to  her.  She  took  a  seat  upon 
the  same  stage  with  him  at  the  York  races.  While 
bets  were  making  upon  different  horses,  she  se- 
lected a  small  horse  that  was  in  the  rear  of  the 
coursers  as  the  subject  of  a  trifling  wager.  Upon 
being  asked  the  reason  for  doing  so,  she  said  that 
the  "  race  was  not  always  to  the  swift,  nor  the 
battle  to  the  strong."    Mr.  Sterne,  who  stood  near 

ing  is  an  extract  from  one  of  them  to  Mrs.  Redman, 
the  wife  of  the  late  Dr.  John  Redman  : 

"  I  have  been  waiting  with  a  pleasing  expectation 
of  my  dissolution  a  great  while,  and  I  believe  the 
same  portion  of  grace  which  has  been  afforded  mc 
hitherto,  will  not  be  withdrawn  at  that  trying  hour. 
My  trust  is  in  my  heavenly  Father's  mercies,  procur- 
ed and  promised  for  the  all-sufficient  merits  of  my 
blessed  Saviour,  so  that  whatever  time  it  may  be  be- 
fore you  see  this,  or  whatever  weakness  I  may  be  un- 
der on  ray  deathbed,  be  assured  this  is  my  faith  ;  this 
is  my  hope  from  my  youth  up  until  now.  And  thus, 
my  dear,  I  take  my  final  leave  of  you.  Adieu,  for- 
ver.  ANNE  GRAEME," 

Sept.  22,  1762. 


176         BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES. 

to  her,  was  struck  with  this  reply,  and,  turn 
hastily  towards  her,  begged  for  the  honour  of  her 
acquaintance.  The}'  seen  became  sociable,  and 
a  good  deal  of  pleasant  conversation  took  place 
between  them,  to  the  great  entertainment  of  the 
surrounding  com pany. 

Upon  her  return  to  Philadelphia,  she  was  visit- 
ed by  a  numerous  circle  of  friends,  as  well  to  con- 
t  dole  with  her  upon  the  death  of  her  mother,  as  to 
welcome  her  arrival  to  her  native  shores.  They 
soon  discovered,  by  the  streams  of  information 
she  poured  upon  her  friends,  that  she  had  been 
"  all  eye,  all  ear,  and  all  grasp,"  during  her  visit 
to  Great-  Britain.  The  Journal  she  kept  of  her 
travels,  was  a  feast  to  all  who  read  it.  Manners 
and  characters  in  an  old  and  highly  civilized  coun- 
try, contrasted  with  those  to  which  she  had  been 
accustomed  in  her  own,  accompanied  with  many 
curious  facts  and  anecdotes,  were  the  component 
part's  of  this  interesting  manuscript.  Re?  mo- 
destv  alone  prevented  its  being  made  public,  and 
thertby  affording  a  specimen  to  the  worlu  an 
posterity,  of  her -happy  talents  for  observation, 
reflection  and  composition. 

In  her  father's   fam.il}'   she  now  occupied    the 
place  of  her  mother.      She  kept  his    house,,  and 

ided  at  his  table  and  fire-side,  in  entertai 
all  his  company.  Such  was  the  character  of  Dr. 
Graeme's  family  for  hospitality  and  refinement  of 
manners,  that  ail  strangers  of  note  who  visited 
Philadelphia  were  introduced  to  it.  Saturday 
evenings  were  appropriated  for  many  years  dur- 
ing Miss  Gramme's  winter  residence  in  the  en 
the  entertainment  not  only  of  strangers,  but  of 
such  of  her  friends  of  both  sexes^as  were  consi- 
dered the  most  suitable  company  for  them.  Thesa 
Evenings  were  properly  speaking,  of  the  Attic  kind* 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES.        177 

The  genius  of  Miss  Graeme  evolved  the  heat  and 
light  thart  animated  them.  One  while  she  in- 
structed by  the  stores  of  knowledge  contained  in 
the  historians,  philosophers  and  poets  of  ancient 
and  modern  nations,  which  she  called  forth  at  her 
pleasure  ;  and  again  she  charmed  by  a  profusion 
of  original  ideas,  collected  by  her  vivid  and  widely 
expanded  imagination,  and  combined  with  exqui- 
site taste  and  judgment  into  an  endless  variety  of 
elegant  and  delightful  forms.  Upon  these  occa- 
sions her  body  seemed  to  evanish,  and  she  appear- 
ed to  be  all  mind.  The  writer  of  this  memoir 
would  have  hesitated  in  giving  this  description  cf 
the  luminous  display  of  Miss  Graeme's  know- 
ledge and  eloquence  at  these  intellectual  banquets, 
did  he  not  know  there  are  several  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen now  living  in  Philadelphia,  who  can  testi- 
fy that  it  is  not  exaggerated. 

It  was  at  one  of  these  evening  parties  she  first 
saw  Mr.  Hugh  Henry  Ferguson,  a  handsome  and 
accomplished  young  gentlemen  who  had  lately 
arrived  in  this  country  from  Scotland.  They 
were  suddenly  pleased  with  each  other.  Private 
interviews  took  place  between  them,  and  in  the 
course  of  a  fcw  months  they  were  married.  The 
inequality  of  their  ages  (for  he  was  ten  years 
younger  than  Miss  G  ramie)  was  opposed  in  a  cal- 
culation of  their  conjugal  happiness,  by  the  same- 
ness of  their  attachments  to  books,  retirement  and 
literary  society.  They  settled  upon  the  estate  in 
Montgomery  county,  which  Mrs.  Ferguson's 
father  (who  died  at  an  advanced  age  soon  after 
her  marriage)  bequeathed  to  her.  But  before  the 
question  of  their  happiness  could  be  decided  by 
the  test  of  experiment,  the  dispute  between  Great 
Britain  and  America  took  place,  in  which  it  be- 
,  came  necessary  for  Mr.  Ferguson  to  take  part. 


178  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKITCKES. 

He  joined  the  former  in  the  year  1775,  and  from 
that  time  a  perpetual  separation  took  place  be- 
tween him  and  Mrs.  Ferguson.  Other  causes 
contributed  to  prevent  their  re-union  after  the 
peace  of  1782  :  but  the  recital  of  them  would  be 
uninteresting  as  well  as  foreign  to  the  design  of 
this  publication.  Mrs.  Ferguson  passed  the  in- 
1  between  the  year  1775  and  the  time  of  her 
death,  chiefly  in  the  country  upon  her  farm,  in 
reading  and  in  the  different  branches  of  domestic 
industry*  A  female  friend  who  had  been  the 
companion  of  her  youth,  and  whose  mind  was 
congenial  to  her  own,  united  her  destiny  with 
hers,  and  soothed  her  various  distresses  by  all  the 
kind  and  affectionate  offices  which  friendship  and 
sympathy  could  dictate.  In  her  retirement  she 
was  eminently  useful.  The  doors  of  the  cottages 
that  were  in  her  neighbourhood  bore  the  marks  of 
her  footsteps,  which  were  always  accompanied  or 
followed  with  cloathing,  provisions  or  medicines 
to  relieve  the  nakedness,  hunger  or  sickness  of 
their  inhabitants.  During  the  time  Gen.  Howe 
had  possession  of  Philadelphia,  she  sent  a  quan- 
tity of  linen  into  the  city,  spun  with  her  own 
hands,  and  directed  it  to  be  made  into  shirts 
for  the  benefit  of  the  American  prisoners  that 
were  taken  at  the  battle  of  Germantown. 

Upon  hearing,  in  one  of  her  visits  to  Philadel- 
phia, that  a  merchant,  once  affluent  in  his  circum- 
stances, was  suddenly  thrown  into  jail  by  his  cre- 
ditors, and  was  suffering  from. the  wTant  of  many 
of  the  usual  comforts  of  his  life,  she  sent  him  a 
bed,  and  afterwards  procured  admission  into  his 
apartment,  and  put  twenty  dollars  into  his  hands. 
He  asked  for  the  name  of  his  benefactress.  She 
refused  to  make  herself  known  to  him,  and  sud- 
denly left  him.     This  humane  and  charitable  act 


BIOGRAPHICAL     SKETCHES.  179 

would  not  have  been  made  known,  had  not  the 
gentleman's  description  of  her  person  and  dress 
discovered  it.  At  this  time  her  annual  income 
was  reduced  to  the  small  sum  of  one  hundred  and 
sixty  dollars  a  year,  which  had  been  saved  by  the 
friendship  of  the  late  Mr.  George  Meade,  out  of 
the  wreck  of  her  estate.  Many  such  secret  acts 
of  charity,  exercised  at  the  expense  of  her  per- 
sonal and  habitual  comforts,  might  be  mentioned. 
They  will  be  made  known  elsewhere.  In  these 
acts  she  obeyed  the  Gospel  commandment  of  lov- 
ing her  neighbours  better  than  herself.  Her  sym- 
pathy was  not  only  active,  but  passive  in  a  hiyh 
degree.  In  the  extent  of  this  species  of  sensi- 
bility she  seemed  to  be  all  nerve.  She  partook 
of  the  minutest  sorrows  of  her  friends,  and  even 
a  newspaper  that  contained  a  detail  of  public  or 
private  woe,  did  not  pass  through  her  hands  with- 
out being  bedewed  with  a  tear.  Nor  did  her 
sympathy  with  misery  end  here.  The  sufferings 
of  the  brute  creation  often  drew  sighs  from  her 
bosom,  and  led  her  to  express  a  hope  that  repara- 
tion would  be  made  to  them  for  those  sufferings 
in  a  future  state  of  existence. 

I  have  said  that  Mrs.  Ferguson  possessed  a 
talent  for  poetry.  Some  of  her  verses  have  been 
published,  and  many  of  them  are  in  the  hands  of 
her  friends.  They  discover  a  vigorous  poetical 
imagination,  but  the  want  of  a  poetical  ear.  This 
will  not  surprise  those  who  know  there  may  be 
poetry  without  metre,  and  metre  without  poetry. 

The  prose  writings  of  Mrs.  Ferguson  indicate 
strong  marks  of  genius,  taste  and  knowledge. 
Nothing  that  came  from  her  pen  was  common. 
Even  her  hasty  notes  to  her  friends  placed  the 
most  trivial  simjects  in  such  anew  and  agreeable 
light,  as  not  only  secured  them  from  destruction. 


180        BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES. 

but  gave  them  a  durable  place  among  the   most 
precious  fragments  of  fancy  and  sentiment. 

Mrs.  Ferguson  was  a  stranger  to  the  feelings 
of  a  mother,  for  she  had  no  children  ;  but  she 
knew  and  had  faithfully  performed  all  the  duties 
of  that  relation  to  the  son  and  daughter  of  one  of 
her  sisters,  who  committed  them  to  her  care  upon 
her  deathbed.  They  both  possessed  hereditary 
talents  and  virtues.  Her  nephew  John  Young, 
became  under  her  direction,  an  accomplished 
sholar  and  gentleman.  He  died  a  lieutenant  in 
the  British  army,  leaving  behind  him  a  record  of 
his  industry  and  knowledge,  in  an  elegant  trans- 
lation of  d' Argent's  Ancient  Geography,  into  the 
English  language.  A  copy  of  this  valuable  work  A 
is  to  be  seen  in  the  Philadelphia  library,  with  a 
tribute  to  the  memory  of  the  translator,  by  Mrs. 
Ferguson.*  The  mind  of  her  niece,  Ann  Young, 
was  an  elegant  impression  of  her  own  :  she  mar- 
ried Dr.  William  Smith,  of  Philadelphia,  and  li- 
ved but  a  few  years  afterwards.  She  left  a  son 
and  daughter  ;  the  latter  followed  her  mother 
prematurely  to  the  grave,  in  the  year  1808,  in  the 
thirtieth  year  of  her  age  :  after  exhibiting  to  a 
numerous  and  affectionate  circle  of  acquaintances, 
a  rare  instance  of  splendid  talents   and    virtues, 

*  A  singular  incident  laid  the  foundation  for  the  li- 
terary acquirements  of  this  young  gentleman.  Be- 
fore his  twelfth  year,  he  was  an  idle  boy  ;  about  that 
time  his  aunt  locked  him  up  in  his  father's  library,  for 
four  and  twenty  hours,  as  a  punishment  for  some  of- 
fence. In  this  situation  he  picked  up  a  book  to  re- 
lieve himself  from  the  uneasiness  of  his  solitude. 
This  book  arrested  and  fixed  his  attention,  He  read 
it  through,  and  from  that  time  he  became  devoted  to 
books  and  study. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES.  18  i 

I 

ng  unimpaired   through  four  successive 
genertitions. 

The  virtues  which  have  beep  ascribed  to  Mrs. 
Ferguson,  were  not  altogether  the  ejects  of  edu- 
cation, nor  of  a  happy  moral  texture  of  mind. 
They  were  improved  invigorated,  and  directed  in 
their  exercises  by  the  doctrines  and  precepts  of 
Christianity.  To  impress  the  contents  of  the  bible 
more  deeply  upon  her  mind,  she  transcribed  ev- 
ery chapter  and  verse  in  it,  and  hence  arose  the 
facility  and  success  with  which  she  frequently  se- 
lected its  finest  historical  and  moral  passages  to 
illustrate  or  adorn  the  subjects  of  her  writings 
and  conversation. 

She  was  well  read  in  polemical  divinity,  and  a 
firm  believer  in  what  are'  considered  the  myste- 
ries of  revelation.  Although  educated  in  the 
forms  and  devoted  to  the  doctrines  of  the  church 
of  England,  she  worshipped  devoutly  with  other 
sects-,  when  she  resided  among  them,  by  all  of 
whom  she  was  with  a  singular  unanimity  believed 
to  be  a  sincere  and  pious  christian. 

There  was  a  peculiarity  in  frer  disposition, 
which  would  seem  at  first  sight,  to  cast  a  shade 
over  the  religious  part  of  her  character.  After 
the  reduction  of  her  income,  she  constantly  re- 
fused to. accept  of  the*  least  pecuniary  assistance 
and  even  of  a  present,  from  any  of  her  friends. 
Let  such  persons  who  are  disposed  to  ascribe  this 
conduct  to  unchristian  prMe,  recollect  there  is  a 
great  difference  between  that  sense  of  poverty 
which  is  induced  by  adverse  dispensations  of  pro- 
vidence, and  that  which  is  brought  on  by  volun- 
tary charities.  Mrs.  Ferguson  conformed,  in  the 
place  and  manner  of  her  living,  to  the  nar 
iiess  of  her  resources.  She  knew  no  wantthat  could 
e  n  wise  or  good  woman  unhappy,  aad  she 
o_ 


1&2  „  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

was  a  sparger  to  the  *c  rea.1  evil"  of  debt.  Her 
charities,  moreover,  would'  not  have  been  her 
own,  had  they  been  replaced  by  the  charities  of 
her  friends. 

The  afflictions  of  this  excellent  woman  from  all 
the  causes  that  have  been  mentioned,  did  not  fill 
up  the  measure  of  her  sufferings.  Her  passage 
out  of  life  was  accompanied  with  great  and  pro- 
tracted pain.  This  welcome  event  took  place  on 
the  22d  of  February,  in  the  year  1801,  in  the  six- 
ty-second year  of  her  age,  at  the  house  of  Seneca 
Lukens,  a  member  of  the  society  of  Friends, 
near  Gramme  Park.  Her  body  was  interred, 
agreeably  to  her  request,  by  the  side  of  her  pa- 
rents, in  the  enclosure  of.  Christ  Church,  in  Phi-  ■ 
ladelphia. 


I       ■  * 


NARRATIVE, 


Til  K  VELVET  PELISSi; 

BY    MUS.   01MC 

MR.  BERESFORJD,  was  a  merchant,  engaged 

n  a  very   expensive    business,  and    possessed  of 

considerable  property,  a  great  part  of  which  was 

vested  in  a  large  estate  in  the  country,  on  which 

he  chiefiy  resided. 

Be  res  ford  was  what  is  commonly  denominated 
purse -proud ;  and  so  eager  to  be  honoured  upon 
account  of  his  wealth,  that  he  shunned  rallies 
than  courted  the  society  of  men  of  rank,  as  he 
was  fond  of  power  and  precedence,  and  did  not 
like  to  associate  with  those  who  had  an  indisputa- 
ble claim  to  that  deference  of  which  he  himself 
v/as  desirous.  But  he  earnestly  wished  that  his 
only  child  and  heiress,  should  marry  a  man  oi 
rank  ;  and  being  informed  that  a  young  baronet 
of  large. estates  in  his  neighbourhood,  and  who- 
was  also  heir  to  a  barony,  was  just  returned  from 
Ids  travels,  and  intended  10  settle  at  his'.patermd 
seat,  Mr.   Beresford    was     res  hat    Julia 

shoukljhave  every  possiole  opportunity  of  shew- 
ing off  to  the  best  adv. 
ghbour  ;   and  he  d 
Uv,  his  house,  and  his  table 
charm  which  money  could  j 

Beresford  had  gained  his   fortune  by    degrees, 
■  luxated  by    frugal    and    retired 


1S4  NARRATIVE. 

parents,  his  habits  were  almost  parsimonious  , 
and  when  he  launched  out  into  unwonted  expenses 
on  becoming  wealthy,  it  was  only  in  a  partial 
manner.  His  house  and  his  furniture  had  a  sort 
cf  pye-bald  appearance  ;— his  style  of  living  was'--; 
not  consistent,  like  that  of  a  man  used  to  live 
Iike%  gentleman,  but  opulence,  with  a  timid  gr;\sp, 
seemed  to  squeeze  out  its  indulgences  from  the 
griping  fingers  of  habitual  economy.  True,  he 
could  on  occasions,  be  splendid,  both  in  his  pub- 
lic and  private  gifts  ;  but  such  bounties  were  ef- 
forts, and  he  seemed  to  wonder  at  himself  when- 
ever the  exertion  was  over. 

Julia  Beresford,  his  daughter,  accustomed  from  ^ 
her  birth  to  affluence,  if  not  to  luxury— and  ha-  - 
ving  in  every  thing  what  is  called  the  spirit  of  a 
gentlewoman,  was  often  distressed  and  mortifiecj. 
at  the  want  of  consistency  in  her  father's  mode  of 
living  ;  but  she  was  particularly  distressc  d  to  find 
that,  though  he  was  always  telling  her  what  a  for- 
tune/he would  give  her  when  she  married,  and  at 
his  death,  he  allowed  her  but  a  trifling  sum,  com- 
paratively, for  pocket  money,  and  required  from 
her,  with  teasing  minuteness,  an  account  of  the 
manner  in  which  her  allowance  was  spent ;  repro- 
bating very  severely  her  propensity  to  spend  her 
money  on  nlausible  beggars  and  pretended  inva- 
lids. " 

But  on  this  point  he  talked  in  vain  ;  used  1  ■•_». 
9.  benevolent  and  pious  mother,  whose  loss  she 
tenderly  deplored,  to  impart  comfort  to  the  poor, 
'Tie  sick,  and  the  afflicted  ;  Julia  endeavoured  to 
make  he r  residence  in  the  country  a  blessing  to 
the  neighbourhood'  but,  too  often,  kind  words, 
soothing  visits,  and  generous  promises,  were  ail 
that  she  had  to  bestow  ;  and  many  a  time  did  she 
purchase  the  meabs  of  relieving  a  distressed  fcl- 


#'  185 

low  creature  by  a  personal  sacrifice  :   for  thou gh 
ever   ready  to  contribute  to  riptioneither 

^public  or  private,   Beresford  could  not  be  prevail- 
ed upon  to  indulge  his  daughu  ing  way  to 
that  habitual  benevolence,  which,  when  once  prac- 
'i-iised,   can  never  be  left  off., 

But  though  the  sums  were  trifling  which  Julie, 
had  to  bestow,  she  had  so  many  cheap  charities 
in  her  power,  such  as  sending  broth  to  the  neigh- 
bouring cottages,,  and  making  linen  of  various 
sorts  for  poor  women  and  children,  that  she  was 
,    deservedly    popular  in    the  neighbourhood  ;   and 

though  her    father  was  reckoned  as  prou 
wwas  rich,  the  daughter  was  pronounced  to'  1 
^pattern  of  good  nature,  and  as  affable  as    he  was 

But  wherever  Beresford  could  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  displaying  his  wealth  to  advantage,  he 
regarded  not  expense  : — and  to  outvie  the  neigh- 
bouring gentlemen    in   endeavours  to   attract  the 
rich. young  baronet,  whom  all  the    young   ladies 
would,    he   snppo^ed^be  aiming  to  captivate,  he 
purchased  magnificent   furniture  and    carriage*, 
and  promhed   Julia  a  great  addition  to  her  ward- 
robe, •  Frederic    Mortimer  should 
up  his  abufi 
Julia  neard-thaj^ie  baronet  was  expected,  " 
a  beating  heart.  tad  been  several   v. 
i*s  ccgnpany  It  a  watering  place,  im;  on 
om  abroad,  and  had  wished  to  appear 
as  charming  in  his  eyes   as  he  appeared  in  hei 

had  been  disappointed.      Modest  and  re  - 
ti:  r,   and  not  showy   in  her  | 

•.  her. features  were  Regularly  beautiful, 
lortimer,  who  had   only  seon  her 
mpanies,  and  with  very    striking  and 
^2    . 


136  NARRATIVE. 

attractive  women,  had  regarded  her  mere^as  an 
amiable  girl,  and  had  rarely  thought  of  her  again. 

Julia  Beresford  was  formed  to  steal  upon  Ihe 
affections  by  slow  degrees  .;  to  interest  on  ac- 
quaintance, not  to  strike  at  first  sight.  But  the 
man  who  had  opportunities  of  listening  to  this'' 
sweet  tones  of  .her  voice,  and  of  gazing  on  her 
varied  countenance  when  emotion  crimsoned  her  , 
pale  cheek,  and  lighted  up  the  expressions  of  her 
eyes,  could  never  behold  her  without  a  degree  of 
interest  which  beauty  alone  often  fails  to  excite. 
Like  most  women,  too,  Julia  derived  great  advan- 
tages from  dress  :  of  this  she  was  sensible, 
though  very  often  did  she  appear  shabbily  attired, 
from  having  expended  on  others,  sums  destined 
to  ornament  herself;  but,  when  she  had  done  so* 
a  physiognomist  would  have  discovered  in  her 
countenance  probably  an  expression  of  self  satis- 
faction, more  ornamental  than  any  dress  could  be. 
But,  generally,  as  Julia  knew  the  value  of  exter- 
nal decoration,  she  wisely  wished  to  indulge  in  it* 
One  day  Julia,  accompanied  by  her  father,  went 
to  the  shop  of  a  milliner,  in  a  large  town,  near 
which  they  lived ;  and  as  winter  was  coming  on, 
and  her  pelisse,  a  dark  and  now  faded  purple,  was 
nearly  worn  out,  she  was  very  desirous  of  pur- 
chasing a  black  velvet  one,  which  was  on  sale  ; 
but  her  father  hearing  that  the  price  of  it  was 
twelve  guineas,  positively  forbade  her  to  wish  for 
so  expensive  a  piece  of  finery  ;  though  he  owned 
that  it  was  very  handsome,  and  very  becoming. 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Julia  smiling,  but  casting  a 
Jonging  look  at  the  pelisse,  u  twelve  guineas  might 
be  better  bestowed:"  and  they  left  the  shop. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Beresford  went  to  town  on 
business,  and,  in  a  short  time  after,  he  wrote. to 
-his  daughter  to  say  that  he  had  met  sir  Frederic 


NARRATIVE.  18/ 

Mortimer  in  London,  and  he  would  soon  be 
down  at  his  seat,  to  attend  some  pony  rafts  which 
Mr.  Hanmer,  who  had  a  mind  to  shew  off  his 
dowdy  daughter  to  the  young  baronet,  intended 
to  have  on  a  piece  of  land  belonging  to  him  ;  and 
that  he  had  heard  all  the  ladies  in  the  neighbour- 
hood were  to  be  there. 

u  I  have  received  an  invitation  for  you  and  my- 
self, "  continued  Mr.  Beresf'ord  :  and  therefore, 
as  I  am  resolved  the  Miss  Traceys,  and  the  other 
girls,  shall  not  be  better  or  more  expensively 
dressed  than  my  daughter,  I  enclose  you  bills  to- 
the  amount  of  thirteen  pounds  ;  and  I  desire  you 
to  go  and  purchase  the  velvet  pelisse  which  we  so 
much  'tfdmired  ;  and  I  have  sent  you  a  hat,  the 
most  elegant  which  money  could  procure,  in  order 
that  my  heiress  may  appear  as  an  heiress  should 
do." 

Julia's  young  heart  beat  with  pleasure  at  this 
permission  :  for  she  was  to  adorn  herself  to  ap- 
pear before  the  only  man  whom  she  ever  wished 
to  please  ;  and  the  next  morning  she  determined 
:o  set  off  to  make  the  desired  purchase. 

That  evening,  being  alone,  she  set  out  to  take 
her  usual  walk";  and  having,  lost  in  no  unpleasing 
reverie,  strayed  very  near  to  a  village  about  three 
miles  from  home,  she  recollected  to  have  heard  an 
affecting  account  of  the  distress  of  a  very  virtu- 
ous and  industrious  family  in  that  village,  owing 
to  the  poor  man's  being  drawn  for  the  militia,  and 
not  rich  enough  to  procure  a  substitute*  She 
therefore  resolved  to  go  on  and  enquire  how  the 
matter  had  terminated.  Julia  proceeded  to  the 
village,  and  reached  it  just  as  the  very  objects  of 
her  solicitude  were  come  to  the  height  of  their, 
distresses* 


188  NAN RATI 

The  father  of  the  family,  not  being  able  to  raise 
moretfan  half  the- money  wanted,  was  obliged 
to  serve  ;  and  Julia,  on  seeing  a  crowd  assembled,. 
approached  to  ask  what  was  going  forvlferd  ;  and 
Found  she  was  arrived  to  witness  a  very  affecting 
scene  :  for  the  poor  man  was  taking  his  last  fare- 
well of  his  wife  and  family,  who,  en  his  departure 
to  join  the  regiment,  would  be  forced  to  go  to  the 
workhouse,  where,  as  they  were. in  delicate  health, 
it  was  most  probable  they  would  soon  fall  victims 
to  bad  food  and  bad  air. 

The  poor  man  was  universally  beloved  in  his 
village  ;  and  the  neighbours,  seeing  that  a  young 
lady  enquired  concerning  his  misfortunes  with  an 
air  of  interest,  were  all  eager  to  give  her  every 
possible  information  on  the  subject  of  his  distress. 
"  And  only  think,  Miss,"  said  one  of  them,  a  for 
the  want  of  nine  pounds  only,  as  honest  and  hard 
working  a  lad.  as  ever  lived,  and  as  good  &  bus-  T- 
band  and  father,  must  be  forced  to  leave  his  fami- 
ly, and  be  a  militia  man — apd  they,  poor  things, 
the  workhouse  !" 

"  Nine  pounds!"  said   Julia,   "would  that   be 
sufficient  to  keep  him  at  home  ?'\«t 

lt  La !  a  es,  Miss  ;  for  that  young  fellow  yonder 
would  gladly  go  for  him  for  eighteen  pounds  !" 

hearing  this  how  many  thoughts  rapidly 
succeeded  each  other  in  Julia's  mind  ? — If  she 
paid  the  nine  pounds,  the  man  would  be  restored 
to  his  family,  and  they  preserved  perhaps  from  an 
untimely  death  in  a  workhouse  f — But  then  she 
had  no  .money  but  what  her  father  had  sent  to 
purchase  the  pelisse,  nor  was  she  to  see  him  till 
she  met  him  on  the  race  ground  ?— and  he  would 
be  so  disappoinreel  if  she  were  not  well  dies; 
True,' she'  might  take  the  pelisse  on  trust ; 
then  she  wa&  sure  her  father  would  be  highly  in- 

I 


«*yn 


NARRATIVE.  189 

ce used  at  her  extravagance,  if  she  spent  twelve 
guineas,  and  gave  away  nine  poinds  at  the  same 
t^.me : — therefore  she  knew  she  must  either 
give  up  doing  a  generous  action,  or  give  up  the 
pelisse,  that  is,  give  up  the  gratification  of  her  fa- 
ther's pride  and  her  own  vanity. 

"  No,  I  dare  not,  I  cannot  do  it,"  thought  Ju- 
lia; u  my  own  vanity  I  would  willingly  mortify, 
—hut  not  my  father's — No— the  poor  man  must 
go  !" 

During  this  mental  struggle  the  bye  standees 
had  eagerly  watched  her  countenance  ;  and  think- 
ing she  was  disposed  to  pay  the  sum  required, 
they  communicated  their  hopes  to  the  poor  peo- 
ple themselves ;  and  as  J  ulia  turned  her  eyes  to- 
wards them  the  wretched  couple  looked  at  her  with 
such  an  imploring  look  !  but  she  was  resolved  : — • 
u  I  am  sorry,  I  am  very  sorry,*'  said  she,  that  I 
can  do'nothing  for  you  : — however,  take  this."  So 
saying,  she  gave  them  all  the  loose  money  she 
had  in  herpocket,  amounting  to  a  few  shillings,  and 
then,  with  an  aching  heart,  walked  rapidly  away  ; 
hut  as  she  did  so,  the  sobs  of  the  poor  woman,  as 
she  leaned  on  her  husband's  shoulders,  and  the 
cries  of  the  little  boy,  when  the  father  struggling 
with  his  grief,  bade  him  a  last  farewell,  reached 
her,  and  penetrated  to  her  heart. 

u  Poor  creatures  !"  she  inwardly  exclaimed  ; 
"  and  nine  pounds  would  change  these  tears  into 
gladness,  and  yet  I  withhold  it !  And  is  it  for  this 
that  Heaven  has  blessed. me  with  opulence  ?  for 
this,  to  be  restrained  by  the  fear  of  being  re- 
proved lor  spending  a  paltry  sum,  such  as  this  is, 
kj  from  doing  an  action  acceptable  in  the  eyes  of  my 
creator  !  no  ;  no  I  will  pay  the  money  !  I  will  give 
myself  the  delight  of  serving  afflicted  worth,  ajid 


w 


'      NARRATIVE. 

spare     myself  from,    perhaps,    eternal 
proach. 

She  then,  without  waiting  for  farther  consl 
ration,  turned  back  again,  paid    the    money    into 
the  poor  man's  hands  ;  and  giving  t  ming 

four  pounds  to  the  woman,  who  though  clean,  was 
miserably  clad,  desired  htjr  to  lay  part  of  it  out 
in  clothes  for  herself  and  children. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  surprise  and 
gratitude  of  the  relieved  sufferers,  nor  the  over- 
whelming feelings  which  Julia  experienced  ;  who 
withdrawing  herself  with  the  rapidity  of  light- 
ning from  their  thanks,  and  wishing  to  remain 
unknowri,'ran  hastily  along  her  road  home,  not 
daring  to  stop,  lest  her  joy  at  having  done  a  gen- 
erous deed,  should  be  checked  by  other  ce/nside- 
rations. 

But  at  length  exhausted,  and  panting  for 
breath,  she  was  obliged  to  relax  in  her  speed; 
and  then  the  image  of  her  angry  and  disappoint- 
ed parent  appeared  to  her  in  ail  its  terrors. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?"  she  exclaimed.—'^  Shall  I 
order  the  pelisse,  though  I  can't  pay  for  it,  or  go 
without?  No  ;  I  ought  not  to  incur  so  great  an 
expense  without  my  father's  leave,  though  I  know 
him  to  be  able  to  afford  it  ;  and  to  run  in  debt 
he  would  consider  as  even  a  greater  fault  than 
the  other.  Well,  then — I  must  submit  to  mortify 
his  pride ;  and  though  I  rejoice  in  what  I  have 
done,  the  joy  is  amply  counterbalanced  by  the 
idea  of  giving  pain  to  my  father." 

Poor  Julia;!   her  own  wounded  vanity  came  in 
for  its  share  in  causing  her  uneasiness  ;   and   the 
rest  of  that  day,  and  the  next,  Julia  spent   in  re- 
flections and  fears,  which  did  not  tend  to  imp 
her  looks,  and  make  a  becoming  dress  unne 


NARRATIVE.  *  19 


k  The  next  morning  was  the  morning  for»the 
races.  The  sun  shone  bright,  and  every  thrng 
looked  cheerful  but  Julia.  She  had  scarcely  spi- 
rit to  dress  herself.  It  was  very  cold  ;  therefore 
■die  was  forced  to  wear  her  faded  purple  pelisse, 
and  now  it  looked  shabbier*  than  usual ;  and  still 
shabbier  from  the  contrast  of  a  very  smart  new 
black  velvet  bonnet. 

At  length  Julia  had  finished  her  toilette,  say- 
ing to  herself,  a  My  father  talked  of  Mr.  H 
mer's  dowdy  daughter.*  I  am  sure  Mr.  fianmer 
may  return  the  compliment ;"  and  then,  with  a 
heavy  heart,  she  got  into  the  carriage,  and  drove 
to  the  house  of-  rendezvous. 

Mr.  Beresford  was  there  before  her  ;  and  while 
he  contemplated  with  fearful,  admiration  the  ele- 
gant cloaks,  and  fine  showy  figures  and  faces  of 
the  Miss  Traceys,  between  whose  father  and  him- 
self there  had  been  long  a  rivalship  of  wealth,  he. 
was  consoled  for  their  elegance  by  reflecting  how 
much  more  expensive  and  elegant  Julia's  dress 
would  be,  and  how  well  she  would  look,  flushed, 
as  he  expected  to  see  her,  with  the  blush  of 
emotion  on  etrfgrag  a  full  room,  and  t  the  con- 
sciousness of  moire  than  usual  attraction  in  her 
appearance. 

Julia   at   length  appeared,  but  pale,  dejected, 

'arid  in  her  old  purple  pellisse  ! 

What  a  mortification !  His  daughter,  the 
great  heiress,  the  worst  dressed,  and  most  dow- 
dy looking  girl  in  the  company  !  Insupportable  .' 
scarcely  could  he  welcome  her,  though  Ik 
not  seen  her  for  some  days;  and  lie  seized  the 
very  first  opportunity  of  asking  her  if  she  had 
received  the  notes. 

'•  Yes,  I  thank  ye,  sir ;"  replied  Julia. 


19; 


NARRATIVE 


"Then  why  did  you  not  buy  what  I  hade  you  . 
It  could  not  be  gone;  for,    if  you  did  not  buy  it," 
nobody  else  could,  I  am  sure.1' 

"  L — I — I  thought  I  could  do  without  it — and 

"  There  now,  there  is  perverseness.  When  I 
wished  you  not  to  have  it,  then  you  wanted  it  ; 
and  now  1  protest  if  I  don't  believe  you  did  it  on 
purpose  to  mortify  me  ;  and  there's  those  minxes, 
whose  father  is  not  worth  half  what  I  am,  are 
dressed  out  as  fine  as  princesses.  I  vow,  girl, 
you  look  so  shabby  and  ugly,  I   can't  bear  to  look 


at  vou 


!» 


What  .a  trial  for  Julia!  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears  ;  and  at  this  moment  sir  Frederic  Morti- 
mer approached  her,  and  hoped  she  had  not  been 
ill ;  but  he  thought  she  was  paler  than  usual  ! 

"  Paler  !"  cried  her  father  :  "  why,  I  should 
not  have  known  her,  she  has  made  such  a:  fright 
of  herself." 

u  You  may  say  so,  sir"  replied  the  baronet 
politely,  though  he  almost  agreed  with  him  ; 
"  but  no  other  man  can  be  of  that  opinion." 

Julia  was  rather  gratified  by  this  speech ;  bm 
without  waiting  for  an  answer,  sir  Frederic  had 
gone  tc  join  the  Miss  Traceys  ;  and  as  he  enter- 
ed into  an  animated  conversation  with  them,  Ju- 
lia was  allowed,  unattended,  to  wralk  to  the  win- 
dow in  the  next  room,  and  enjoy  her  own  me- 
lancholy reflections. 

At  length  to  Julia's  great  relief,  they  were 
summoned  to  the  race-ground  ;  the  baronet  taking 
Miss  Hanmer  under  one  arm  and  the  elder  Miss 
Tracey  under  the  other. — uSo"  cried  Beresford, 
'.  seizing  Julia  roughly  by  the  hand,  u  I  must  lead 
you,.  I  see  ;  for  who  will  take  any  notice  of  such 


ARRATIVE. 


a  dowdy  ?  Well  girl,  I  Was  too  proud  of^you, 
and  you  have  contrived  to  humble  me  enough." 

There  was  a  mixture  of  tenderness  and  re- 
sentment in  this  speech  which  quite  overcame  JV 
lia,  and  she  burst  into  tears.  "  There — now  she 
is  going  to  make  herself  worse  by  spoiling  her 
eyes.  Bat  come,  tell  me  what  you  did  with  the 
money  ;   I  insist  upon  knowing." 

"  I — I — gave  it  away,"  sobbed  out  Julia. 

"  Gave  it  away  !  monstrous  !  I  protest  I  will 
not  speak  to  you  again  for  a  .month."  so  saying 
he  left  her,  and  carefully  avoided  to  look  at  or 
speak  to  her  again. 

The  races  began  and,,  were  interesting  to  all  bat 
Julia,  who  conscious  of  being  beheld  by  her  fa- 
ther witii  looks  of  mortification  and  resentment, 
and  by  the  man  of  her  choice   with   indifference, 

id  no  satisfaction  to  enable  her  to  support  the 
unpleasantness  of  her  situation,  except   the  con- 


.oasness  that  her  sorrow  had  been  the  cause  o 


happiness  to  others,  and  that  the  family  whom  she 
had  relieved  were  probably  at  that  moment  nam- 
ing her  with  praises  and  blessings.  Then  why 
should  I  be  so,,  selfish  as  to,  repine  r"  thought 
J  ulia  ;  "  perhaps  no  one  present-lias  such  a  righl 
as  I  to  rejoice  ;  for  how  poor  are  the  gratifica- 
tions of. vanin  triumphs  of  benevolence  1" 

So  like  a  philosopher  reasoned  our  .heroine  $ 
but  she,  felt  like  a  woman,  an  J,  spite  of  herself, 
an  ex[>reshion  of  vexation  still  :  r  va^kd  over  the 
usual  sv/etUiess    of  her  countenance. 

The -races1  at  lengih  ^finished,  and  with  the'ttf, 
she  flattered  herself  would  finish  her  mortifica- 
tions;  bat  in  vain.  The  company  was  expected 
to  stay  to  paitake  of  a  cold  collation,  which  was 
to  be  precocled'by  music  and  dancing ;  and  Ju- 
lia was  obliged  to  accept  the  unwelcome  invitation, 

R 


194  i  NARRATIVE. 


A^theiadies  were  most  of  them  very  young, 
they  were  supposed  not  to  have  yet  forgotten  the 
art  of  dancing  minuets — an  art  now  of  so  little 
use ;  and  Mr.  Hanmer  begged  sir  Frederic 
would  lead  off  his  daughter  to  shew  off  in  a  min- 
uet. The  baronet  obeyed  ;  and  then  offered  to 
take  out  Julia  for  the  same  purpose ;  but  she, 
blushing,  refused  to    comply. 

"  Well,  what's  that  for  ?"  cried  Beresford,  an- 
grily, who  knew  that  Julia  was  remarkable  for 
dancing  a  good  minuet.  "  Why  can't  you  dance 
when  you  are  asked,  Miss  Beresford  ?"  u  Be- 
cause," replied  Julia,  in  a  faultering,  voice,  "  I 
I  have  no  gown  on,  and  I  can't  dance  a  minuet 
in  my — in  my  pelisse." 

u  Rot  your  pelisse  !"  exclaimed  Beresford,  for- 
getting all  decency  and  decorum,  and  turned  to 
the  window  to  hide  his  angry  emotions,  while 
Julia  hung  her  head,  abashed  ;  and  the  baronet 
led  out  Miss  Tracey,  who  throwing  off  the  cloak 
which  she  had  worn  before,  having  expected  such 
an  exhibition  would  take  place,  displayed  a  very 
fine  form,  set  off  with  the  most  becoming  gqvvn 
possible.  ^^ 

•  lk  Charming  !  a^nfirable  !  what  a  figure  !  what 
grace  !"  was  murmured  throughout  the  room. 
Mr.  Beresford 's  proud  heart  throbbed  almost  to 
agony,  while  Julia,  though  ever  ready  to  ac- 
knowledge the  excellence  of  another,'still  felt  the 
whole  scene  so  vexatious  to  her,  principally 
from  the  mortification  of  her  father,  that  her  on- 
ly resource  was  again  thinking  on  the  family  res- 
cued from  miser)'  by  her.' 

Reels  were  next  called  for ;  and  Julia  themstood 
up  to  dance  ;  but  she  had  not  danced  five  minutes 
when,  exhausted  by  the  various  emotions  which 
she  had  undergone  during  the  last  eight  and  forty 


SARRAT1VE.  195 

hours  her  head  became  so  giddy,  that  she  could 
not  proceed,  and  was  obliged,  to  sit  down.    ' 

u  I  believe  the  deuce  is  in  the  girl,"  muttered 
Mr.  Beresford  ;  and  to  increase  her  distress, 
Julia  overheard  him. 

In  a  short  time  the  dancing  was  discontinued 
and  a  concert  begun.  Miss  Hanmer  played  a 
sonata,  and  Miss  Tracey  sung  a  bravura  song 
with  great  execution.  Julia  was  then  called  up- 
on to  play  ;  but  she  timidly  answered., -that  she 
never  played  lessons  : 

11  But  you  sing,"  said  Miss  Hanmer. 

"  Sometimes  ;  but  I  beg  to  be  excused  singing 
now." 

"  What  !  you  will  not  sing  neither  ?"  said  Mr. 
Beresford. 

"  I-can't  sing  now,  indeed  sir;  I  am  not  well 
enough  ;  and  I  tremble  so  much  that  I  have  not 
a  steady  note  in  my  voice." 

"  So,  Miss,"  whispered  Mr.  Beresford,  and 
this  is 'what  I  get  in  return  for  haying  squandered 
so  much  money  on  your  education  ?" 

The  Miss  Traceys  were  then  applied  to,  and 
they  sung/with  great  applause,  a  difficult  Italian 
duo,  and  were  complimented  into  the  bargain 
on  their  readiness  to  oblige. 

Poor  Julia. 

"  You  see  Miss  Beresford,  how  silly  and  con- 
temptible you  look,"  whispered  Beresford, 
"  while  these  squalling  Misses  run  away  with  all 
the  admiration." 

u  Julia's  persecutions  were  not  yet  over.— 
('  Though  you  are  not  well  enough,  Miss  Beres- 
iord,  to  sing  a  song,"  said  Mr.  Hanmer,  "  which 
requires  much  exertion,  surely  you  can  sing  a 
ballad  without  music,  which  is  I  am  told,  your 
forte;' 


396  m  NARRATIVE. 

m 

"  So  I  have  heard,"  cried  sir  Frederic.  "  Do, 
?vliss*Beresford  oblige 'us." 

"  Do,''  said  the  Miss  Traceys  ,\.and  we  have  a 
claim  on  you/1 

44  I  own  it,"  replied  Julia,  in  a  voice  scarcely 
audible  ;  "  but  you,  who  are  such  proficients  in 
music,  must  know,  that  to  sing  a  simple  ballad 
requires  more  self-possession  and  steadiness  of 
tone  than  any  other  kind  of  singing  ;  as  all  the. 
merit  depends  on  the  clearness  of  utterance,  and 
the  power  of  sustaining  the  notes." 

14  True  :  but  do  try." 

44  Indeed  I  cannot  :v  and,  shrugging  up  her 
shoulders,  the  ladies  desisted  from  further  im- 
portunities. 44  I  am  so  surprised,"  said  one  of 
them  to  the  other,  leaning  across  two  or  three 
gentlemen  :  I  had  heard  that  Miss-  Beresford- 
was  remarkably  good  humoured  and  obliging,  and: 
she  seems  quite  sullen  and  obstinate  :  don't  you 
think  so  ?■* 

44  O  dear,  yes  !  and  not  obliging  at  all." 

44  No,  indeed,"  cried  Miss  Hanmer  :  "  she 
seems  to  presume  on  her  wealth,  I  think  :  what 
think  you,  gentlemen  ?" 

But  the  gentlemen  ^rere  not  so  hasty  in  their 
judgments — twro  of  them  only  observed  that  Miss 
Beresford  was  in  no  respect  like  herself  that  day. 

44  I  don't  think  she  is  well,"  said  the  baronet. 

44  Perhaps  she  is  in  love,"  said  Miss  Tracey, 
laughing  at  the  shrewdness  of  her  own  observa- 
tions. 

44  Perhaps  so,"  replied  sir  Frederic,  thought- 
fully. 
"Jit  was  sir  Frederic's.intention  to  marry,  and 
if  possible  a  young  woman  born  in  the  same 
county  as  himself ;  for  he  ^shed  her  to  have  the 
same  "local  prejudices  as  he  had,  and  to  have  the 


NARRATIVE.  197. 

same  early  attachments  :  consequently  he  en- 
quired of  his  steward,  before  he  came  to  reside  at 
his  seat,  into  the  character  of  the  ladies  in  the 
neighbourhood  ;  but  the  steward  could  or  would 
talk  of  no  one  but  Julia  Beresford  ;  and  of  her 
he  gave  so  exalted  a  character,  that  sir  Frede- 
ric, who  only  remembered  her  as  a  pleasing  mo- 
dest girl,  was  very  sorry  that  he  had  not  paid  her 
more  attention. 

Soon  after  in  the  gallery  of  an  eminent  painter, 
he  saw  her  picture  ;  and  though  he  thought  it 
flattered  ,  he  gazed  on  it  with  pleasure,  and  fan- 
cied that  Julia  when  animated  might  be  quite  as 
handsome  as  that  was.  Since  that  time  he  had 
frequently  thought  of  her,  and  thought  of  her  as 
a  woman  formed  to  make  him  happy  S  an*}  in- 
Bleed  he  had  gone  to  look  at  her  picture  the  day 
before  he  came  down  to  the  country,  and  had  it 
strongly  in  his  remembrance  when  He  saw  Julia 
herself,  pale,  spiritless,  and*  ill  dressed,  in  Mr.  > 
Hanraer's  drawing  room. 

Perhaps  it  would  be  too  much  to  say,  that  he 
felt  as  much  chagrined  as  Mr.  Beresford  :  but 
certain  it  is,  that  he  was  sensibly  disappointed, 
and  could  not  help  yielding  to  the  superior  at- 
traction of  the  lovely  and  elegant  Miss  Tracy  ube- 
sides,  he  was  the  object  of  general  attention,  and 

"  We  know  of  o^lthat  that  all  contend 
"  To  win  her  grace,  whom  alkcommend." 

The  concert  being  over  the  company  adjourn- 
ed to  ah  elegant  entertainment  set  out  in  an  open 
pavilion  "in  the  park,  which  commanded  a  most 
lovely  view  of  the  adjacent  country. 

Julia  seated  herself  near  the  entrance  ;  the  ba- 
ronet placed  himself  between  the  two  lovely  sis- 
ters ;  and  Beresford,  in  order  to  be  able  to  vent 


:9S  NAURATIVL. 

his  spleen  every  now  and  then   in  his .  daughter's 
car,  took*  a  chair  beside  her. 

The  collation  had  ever}'  delicacy  to  tempt  the 
palate  and  every  decoration  to  gratify  the  taste 
and  all  except  the  pensive  Julia,  seemed  to  en- 
joy it :  when  as  she  was  leaning  from  the  door  to 
speak  to  a  lady  at  tiie  head  of 'the  table,  a  little 
boy,  about  ten  years  old,  peeped  into  the  pavilion, 
as  if  anxiously  looking  for  some  one. 

The  child  was  so  clean,  and  so  neat  in  his  dress, 
that  a' gentleman  near  him  patted  his  curly  head, 
and  asked  him  what  he  wanted? 

"  A  lady." 

"  But  what  lady  ?  Here  is  one,  and  a  pretty 
one  too,"  showing  the  lady  next  him  ;  "  will  not 
she  do  r" 

"  Oh  no  !  she  is  not  my  lady,"  replied  the 
boy.  : 

At  this  moment  Julia  turned  round,  and  the 
little  boy,  clapping  his  hands,  exclaimed,  "  Oh  ! 
that's  she  !  that's  she  !"  Then  turning  out,  he 
cried,  "  Mother !  mother "!  Father!  father  !  hero 
she  is  !  we  have  found  her  at  last !"  and  before 
Julia,  who  suspected  -what  was  to  follow,  could 
leave  her  place,  and  get  out  of  the  pavilion,  the 
poor^man  and  woman  whom  she?  had  relieved, 
and  their  now  well  clothed,  happy,  looking  fami- 
ly, appeared  before  the  door  of  it. 

"  What  does  all  this  mean  ?  cried  Mr.  Ham 
mer.     "  Good  pe'bple,  whom  do    o     want  ?' 

11  We  come,  sir,"  cried  the  ma  ,  "l  in  search  of, 
that  young  lady,"  pointing  to  Julia  '  as  we  could 
not  go  from  the  neighborhood  without  coming  to 
thank  and  bless  her  ;*1orTshe  saved  me  from  go- 
ing for  a  soldier,  and  my  wife  and  children  from 
a"  workhouse,  sir,  and  made  me  and  mine  as 
•^omfortal^e  as  you  now  see  us»" 

I 


M 


I 


MA?.RATIV£.  199 

'  )ear  Father  !  let  me  pass,  pray  do,"  cried 
Julia,  trembling-  with  emotion,  and  oppressed  with 
ingenuous  modest  v. 

u  Stay  where  you  are,  girl,""  cried  B^resford,  in 
a  voice  between  laughing  and  crying. 

"Well,  but  flow' came  you  hither  :"  cried  Mr. 
Hanmer,  w ho  began  to  think  this  wa.s  a  premedi- 
tated scheme  of  Julia's  to  show  off  before  the 
company. 

"  Why,  sir — shall  I  tell  you  the  wheh 
asked  the  man. 

"  No,  no,  pray  go>away,"  cried  Julia,  u 
come  and  speak  to  you.7' 

"  By  no  means,"  cried  the  baronet  eagerly--: 
"  the  story,  the  story,  if  .ycu  please." 
^  The  man  then  began,  and  related  Julia's  meet- 
ing him  and  his  family,  her  having  relieved  them., 
and  then  running  away  to  avoid  their  thanks,  and 
to  prevent  her  being  followed,  as  it  seemed,  and 
being  known.  That,  resolved  not  to  rest  till  thetf$ 
had  learned  the  name  of  their  benefactress,  they 
had  described  her  person  and  her  dress  :  "  but 
bless  your  honour,"  interrupted  the  woman,  "  when 
we  said  what  she  had  done  for  us,  we  had  not  to 
ask  any  more,  for  every  one  said  it  could  be  nobo- 
dy but  Miss  Julia  Beresford." 

Here  Julia  hid  her  face  on  her  father's  shoul- 
der, and  the  company  said  not  a  word.  The  young 
ladies  appeared  conscience  struck  ;  for  it  seemed 
that  none  in  the  neighbourhood  (ana  they  were  of 
it)  could  do  a  kind  action  but  Miss  Julia  Beres- 


* 


ford. 

"Well7my  good  man,  go  on,"  cried  Beresford 
gently.  *. 

"  Well,  sir ;  yesterday  I  heard  that  if  I  went 
to  live  at  a  market  town  four  miles  off,  I  could 
get  more  work  to  do  than  I  have  in  mv#wn  viU 


■ 

200  NARKATlVil. 

lage,  and  employ  for  my  little  boy  too ;  so  we  re- 
solved to  go  and  try  our  luck  there  :  but  we  could 
not  be  easy  to  go  away,  without  coming  to  thank 
and  bless  that  good  young  lady ;  so,  hearing  at 
her  house  that  she  was  come  hither,  we  made  bold 
to  follow  her ;  your  servants  told  us  where  to 
find  her — ah  !  bless  her  ! — thanks  to  her,  I  can 
afford  to  hire  a  cart  for  my  poor  sick  wife  and 
family  !" 

u  Ah  !  Miss,  Miss,"  cried  the  little  boy,  pull- 
ing Julia  by  the  arm,  "  only  think,  we  shall  ride 
in  a  cart,  with  a  tall  horse;  and  brother  and  I 
Have  got  new  shoes — only  look!" 

But  Miss  was  crying  and  did  not  like  to  look  ; 
however,  she  made  an  effort,  and  looked  up,  but 
was  forced  to  turn  away  her  head  again,  overset 
by  a  "God  bless  you  !"  heartily  pronounced  by 
the  poor  woman,  and  echoed  by  the  man. 

"  This  is  quite  a  scene,  I  protest,"  cried  Miss 
Tracey. 

"  But  one  in  which  we  should  all  have  been 
proud  to  have  been  actors,  I  trust,"  answered  the 
baronet.  "  What  say  you,  gentlemen  and  la- 
dies ?"  continued  he,  coming  forward  :  u  though 
we  cannot  equal  Miss  Beresford's  kindness,  since 
she  sought  out  poverty,  and  it  comes  to  us,  what 
say  you  ?  shall  we  make  a  purse  for  these  good 
people,  that  they  may  not  think  there  is  only  one 
kind  being  in  the.  neighbourhood  ?" 

"Agreed  !"  cried  every  one  ;  ,;and  as  sir  Fre- 
deric held  the  hat,  the  subscription  from  the  ladies 
was  a  very  liberal  one  ;  but  Mr.  Bercsford  gave 
five  guineas ;  then  Mr.;JrIahmer  desired  the  over- 
joyed family  to  go  to  his  house  to  get  some  re- 
freshment, and  the  company  reseated  themselves. 

But  Mr.  Beresford,  having  quitted  his  seat,  in 
order  to  wipe  his  eyes  unseen  at  the  door,  the  ba- 
ronefc  had  taken  the  vacatft^lace  by  Julia. 


NARRATIVE. 

,;  Novn,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  cried  Beresford, 
blowing  his  nose,  "  you  shall  see  a  new  sight — a 
parent  asking  pardon  of  his  child.  Julia,  my  dt  ar, 
I  know  I  behaved  very  ill — I  know  I  was  very- 
cross  to  )"ou — very  savage  ;  I  know  I  was.  You 
are  a  good  girl—and  always  were,  and  ever  will 
be,  the  pride  of  my  life — so  let's  kiss  and  be 
friends" — and  Julia,  throwing  herself  into  her 
lather's  arms,  declared  she  should  now  be  herself 
again  ! 

"  What !  more  scenes  !"  cried  Mr.  Kanmer. 
"  What  are  you  sentimental  too,  Mr.  Beresforcl  ? 
Who  should  have  thought  it." 

u  Why,  I'll  tell  a  story  now,"  continued  he? 
v*  that  girl  vexed  and  mortified  me  confoundedly 
-r-that  she  did.  I  wished  her  to  be  smart,  to  do 
honour  to  you  and  your  daughter  to-day  ;  so  I 
sent  her  twelve  guineas  to  buy  a  very  handsome 
velvet  pelisse,  which  she  took  a  fancy  to,  but  which 
I  thought  too  dear.  But  instead  of  that,  here 
she  comes  in  this  old  fright,  and  a  fine  dowdy 
figure  she  looks  :  and  when  I  reproached  her,  she 
said  she  had  given  the  money  away;  and  so  I  sup- 
pose it  was  that  very  money  which  she  gave  to 
these  people.     Heh  !  was  it  not  so,  Julia  ?'? 

a  It  was,"  replied  Julia;  "  and  I  ddve  not  then 
be  so  extravagant  as  to  get  the  pelisse  too." 

"  Hanmer,  continued  Beresford,  '"  you  may 
sneer  at  me  for  being  scntimaiialy  if  you  please  : 
but  I  am  now  prouder  of  my  girl  in  her  shabby 
cloak  here,  than  if  she  we're  dressed  out  in  silks 
and  satins." 

u  And  so  you  ought  to  be,"  cried  sir  Frederic. 
"  And  Miss  Beresford  has  converted  this  gar- 
ment," lifting  up  the  end  of  the  pelisse,"  into  a 
robe  of  honour  :"•— so  saying,  he  gallantly  pressed 
it  to  his  lips.     "  Come,   I  will  give  you  a  toast," 


m 


NARRATIVE. 


continued  he  :  here  is  th«  health  of  the  woman 
7who  was  capable  of  sacrificing  the  gratification 
of  her  personal  vanity  to  the  claims  of  benevo- 
lence !" 

The  ladies  put  up  their  pretty  lips,  but  drank 
the  toast,  and  Beresford  went  to  the  door  to  wipe 
his  eyes  again  ;  while  Julia  could  not  help  owning 
to  herself,  that  if  she  had  had  her  moments  of 
mortification,  they  were  richly  paid. 

'  The  collation  was  now  resumed,  and  Julia  par- 
took of  it  with  pleasure  ;  her  heart  was  at  ease, 
lur  cheek  recovered  its  bloom,  and  her  eyes  their 
lustre.  Again  the  Miss  Traceys  sung,  and  with 
increased  brilliancy  of  execution.  It  was  won- 
derful !  they  sung  like  professors,"  every  one 
said  ;  and  then  again  Julia  was  requested  to  sing. 

"  I  can  sing  now"  replied  she  ;  "  and  I  never 
refuse  when  I  can  do  so.  Now  I  have  found  my 
father's  favour,  I  shall  find  my  voice  too  ;"  and 
then,  without  any  more  preamble,  she  sung  a 
plaintive  and  simple  bajlad,  in  a  manner  the  most 
touching  and  unadorned. 

No  one  applauded  while  she  sung,  for  all  seem- 
ed afraid  to  lose  any  particle  of  tones  so  sweet 
and  so  pathetic  ;  but  when  she  had  ended,  every 
one,  except  sir  Frederic,  loudly  commended  her, 
and  he  was  silent ;  but  Julia  saw  that  his  eyes 
glistened,  and  she  heard  him  sigh,  and  she  was 
very  glad  that  he  said  nothing. 

Again  the  sisters  sung,  and  Julia  too,  and  then 
the  party  broke  up";  but  Mrs.  Tracey  invited  the 
same  party  to  meet  at  her  house  in  the  evening, 
to  a  ball  and  supper,  and  they  all  agreed  to  wait 
en  her. 

As  they  returned  to   the  house,  sir  Frederic 
4*  gave  his  arm  to  Julia,  and  Miss  Tracey  walked 
before  them. 


NARRATIVE.  203 

c;  That  is  a  very  fine,  showy,,  elegant  %irl,"  ob- ' 
served  sir  Frederic. 

u  She  is,  indeed,  and  very  handsome,''  replied 
Julia;  "  and  her  singing  is  wonderful. " 

u  Just  so,"  replied  sir  Frederic  ;  "  it  is  won- 
derful, but  not  pleasing.  Her  singing  is  l.ke  her- 
self— she  is  a  bravura  song — showy  and  brilliant, 
but  nr,»t  touching — not  interesting."  Julia  smiled 
at  the  illustration  ;  and  the  baronet  continued  : — 
"  Will  you  be  angry  at  my  presumption,  Mis? 
Beresford,  if  I  venture  to  add  that  you  too.  re- 
semble your  singing?  If  Miss  Tracey  be  a  bra- 
vura song,  you  are  a  ballad — not  showy,  not  bril- 
liant, but  touching,  interesting  and — " 

"O  !  pray  say  no  more,"  said  Julia,  blushing 
a*id  hastening  to  join  the  company — but  it  was  a  ' 
blush  of  pleasure ;  and  as  she  rode  Rome- she 
amused  herself  with,  analysing  all  the  properties 
of  the  ballad,  and  she  was  very  well  contented 
with  the  analysis. 

That  evening  Julia,  all    herself   again,  dres- 
sed with  exquisite   and  becoming   taste,  danced, 
smiled,  talked  and  was  universally  admired.    But 
was  she  particularly  so  ?      Did  the   man  of  her 
heart  foiiowher  with  delightful  attention  : 

u  Julia,"  said  her  happy  father,  as  they  went 
home  at  night,  "  you  will  have  the  velvet,  pelisse 
and  sir  Frederic  too,  I  expect." 

Np.r  was  he  mistaken.  The  pelisse  was  hers 
the  next  day,  and  the  baronet  some  months  after. 
But  Julia  to  this  hour  preserves  with  the  utmost 
care  the  faded  pelisse,  which  sir  Frederic  had 
pronounced  to  be  "  a  robe  of  honour." 


ARKATIVE. 


THE  MOTHER-IN-LAW 


BY  MRS.   HUNTER* 


1  shall  proceed  without  any  prelude  beyond 

that  of  telling  you  that  the  family,  as  usual,  dis- 
persed yesterday  morning  immediately  alter  we 
left  the  room,  mh  Davenport  repaired  to  the 
library  to  write  letters  for  our  conveyance  to  town, 
and  Mrs.  Berry  to  her  girls.  Mrs.  Davenport 
and  myself,  said  Mr.  Palmerstone,  whose  words 
I  mean  to  adopt,  were  tete-a-tete.  '  I  intend, 
my  good  friend,'  said  this  charming  woman  with 
her  usual  vivacity,  c  to.  keep  you  a  prisoner.  I 
have  ow^|you  a  grudge  for  some  years  :  and 
this  shall  be  the  hour  of  retribution. 

*  You  will  perceive,'  continued  she,  taking  lip 
her  knotting-bag,  J  the  odious  appellation  which 
vou  and  some  others  of  my  very  kind  friends  con- 
trived to  affix  to  my  name.  It  is  but  just  that  you 
listen  patiently  to  all  the  various  griefs  and  mor- 
tifications which  have  resulted  from  youi  plots 
and  contrivances  with  Davenport,  to  render  me  a, 
cruel  step-mother,  instead  of  a  handsome  widow. 
How  many  sad  events/  sighed  she,  '  have  sepa- 
rated us  since  those  smiling  hours  !  And  let  me 
add,'  pressing  my  hand  affectionately,  on  ftbsei  ving 
my  emotion — '  let  rne  add,  my  dear  and  vener 
friend,  how  many  blessings  have  marked  that 
chVquered  interval  !:" 

"  From  your  hand  my  excellent  Davenport  re- 
ceived me,"  continued  she  :  '  you  may  remember 
we  parted-  at  the  abbey-door  ;  and,  leaving  you  to 
answer  all  congratulations,  we  set  out  for  fir. 
Davenport's  seat  in  Dorsetshire.  I  was  then  in 
my  thirty-third  year,  and  my  boy  George,  twelve. 


NARRATIVE. 


Oar  reception  at  my  destined  home  had  more  in 
it  of  vulgar  curiosity  than  of  cordial  welcome. 
All  was  in  state,  and  we  were  ushered  into  the 
best  drawing  room  with  sullen  reverence..  Poor 
HarriJ&as  stationed  in  it,  as  fine  as  hands  could 
make  fle¥,  and,  without  doubt,  had  been  tutored 
to  receive  her  mother-in-law  with  her  best  court- 
sev  :  but  no  sooner  did  she  sec  her  father,  than, 
unmindful  of  me,  she  ran  into  his  arms  and  sob- 
bed aloud.  A  very  fat  but  comely  woman  joined 
her  in  these  lamentations  ;  and  Frank  pavenpfcrt 
stood  confused  and  sad    with  his  eyes  to 

the  carpet.  A  look  from  my  husband  sent  Mr«. 
Nurse,  as  I  found  herwGo  be,  to  her  apartment :  he 
then  put  the  weeping  child  into  mj  arms  ;  shedfc 
actually  shrunk  from  my  embrace, 'artl^again,  as 
it  were,  so.ight  the  protecting  wing  ot  her  fctiher; 
who,  to  conceal  his  agitation,  now  presented  his 
son  to  me  and  my  George. 

"  A    few  questions  relative  to  the  occurrences 
which  had    happened  in  rijs  absence  succeeded  ; 
d  the  detail  of  the  lameness   o  's  pony 

gave  George  an  pit}-  of  showing  his \sk ill 

in  farriery.     The  boys  became  h  in  this 

conversation,  and  soon  at  their  ease  :   this  some- 
;g.     George   was    at  home  again 
re  :   he  produced  his  treasures  of  flies,   s^d  an 
uppoir.tment    followed  for   the   next  morning  to 
('ml4py    "ie-m    m  the  finest  trout-stream  in 'Eng- 
land.     Pool    Harriet,  dfurtn  ;  this    animated  con- 
versation, umained    silent    and  d.jected  :  but    I 
iortunau.lv  recollected  some  caricature  prints  we 
up  in  our  road  from  Bath  :  these  were 
[  bad  the  satisfaction  of  seeingfher 
x   into  a  smile.     We  supped 
tolerably  composed,  and  not  uncheerfully.   Frank, 
on  retiring  for  the   night,  took  his  father's  hand 


NARRATIVE. 


wishing  him  good  night.  I  held  cut  mine.  He 
saw  my  purpose,  blushed  deeply,  saluted  me  with 
fervour,  dropped  his  eyes,  and  then  imploringly 
raised  them  to  his  sister.  She  fearfully  advanced, 
and  greatly  distressed  me  by  falling  on  my  bosom 
and  weeping  bitterly.  "  We  shall  meet  to-mor- 
row, my  love,'1  said  I,  returning  her  to  her  lather, 
who  looked  displeased  :  u  if  it  be  a  fine  morning, 
we  will  go  and  give  notice  to  the  poor  trout 
bf  your  brothers'  evil  intentions.7'  They  each 
took  a  passive  hand,  and  conducted  her,  blinded 
by  tears,  to  her  room. 

a  After  they  had  quitted  us,  my  husband  ex- 
pressed his  tenderfears  leastl  might havereceived 
an  unfavourable  impression  of  his  child  from  her 
behaviour.  I  re-assured  him.  '  I  perfectly  un- 
derstand,' said  I,  4  all  this  business  :  I  have  not 
been  so  improvident  as  to  be  unprepared  ;  be  sa- 
tisfied. You  shall  be  jealous  of  this  child's  affec- 
tion for  me  in  less  than  a  year,  unless  your  confi- 
dence equals  the  love  you  cherish  for  me.  Your 
children  must  be  happy,- or  I  miserable.'  We  theri 
entered  into  some  discussions  relative  to  the  do- 
mestic concerns  of  the  family. 

"  You  may  perceive  already,  my  dear  Susan, 
(said  my  worthy  husband)  l  that  1  repose  all  my 
cares  on  you  ;  but  I. conjure  you  exert  not  your 
prudence  at  the  expense  of  your  comforts.  I 
well  know  I  have  been  too  easy  a  master,  and  that 
by  my  indolence  I  Have  converted  very  gcotts^ 
vants  into  very  idle  ones.'  He  then  detailed  to 
he  enormous  increase  of  his  house-bills,  and 
the  general  neglect  of  his  concerns,  which  had  in- 
sensibly gained  upon  his  domestics.  k  They  are, 
said  he,  L  honest,  but,  like  their  master,  love  their 
ease.  I  visa  to  meet  contented  faces  and  cheer- 
ful obedience  ;  and  they  see    in  mine  that   of  a 


NARRATIVE.  207 

friend':  but  we  all  want  regulation,  and  you  must 
redress  these  grievances.' 

"  The  next  day  Mrs.  Dawson,  vvith'much  for- 
mality, showed  me  the  way  through  my  new  ha- 
bitatjton  .;  talked  a  great  deal  6f  her  good  and  in- 
dulgent master  ;  of  the  surpri  aid  be  to 
some  young  ladies  in  the  neighbourhood,  to  hear 
that  he  had  brought  home  a  lady.  I  dismissed 
my  loqnaciousconductress  at  the  door  of  Harriet's 
apartment,  and  entered.  She  was  composed,  but 
not  gay  ;  and  in  all  her  answers  to  my  questions 
called  me  madam.  Nurse  was  stately  and  re- 
served ;  and,  I  believe,  thought  my  visit  an  intru- 
sion, on  asking  her  the  age  of  her  charge,  she 
said,  "  Miss  Harriet  had  just  turned  of  tlzvqxfy. 
•—and  voluntary  added, 4  that  her  dear  mother  hicf 
beeen  dead  six  years.'  Her  face  flushed,  and  her 
eyes  swam  in  tears.  She  suddenly  "stooped  to  tie 
anew  Harriet's  sash,  which  she  had  done,  the  in- 
stant before,  apparentlyto  her  satisfaction. 

"  The  bustle  of  receiving  visitors  appeared  to 
divert  Harriet's  mind  from  the  contemplation  of 
her  misfortune  ;  she  was  also  much  flattered  by 
my  attention  to  her  dress.  The  stiff  boned  stays 
gave  place  to  the  dimity  corset  ;  and  the  Bath 
fashions  became  with  Harriet  the  standard  of 
taste.  Nurse  observed,  with  jealous  eyes,  my 
growing  influence,  but  prudently  yielded  to  an 
ascendancy  with  which  she  found  herself  unequal 
to  contest. 

"  Amongst  our  most  early  visitors  were  a  Mr. 
and  ?>Irs.  Barnet,  with  a  very  handsome  daughter. 
I  concluded  from  the  little  c«remony  they  observ- 
ed on  the  occasion,  that  they  were  very  intimate 
friends  of  my  husband  ;  for  they  surprised'us  a£ 
the  breakfast  table  :  but  the  cold  civility  of  the 
mother  and  daughter  tallied  not  with   this    idea? 


208  KAuKATIVE. 

am!  suspended  my  opinion  for  further  knowledge. 
On  their  leaving  us,  I  ask-d  Harriet  whether  the 
ladies  were  near  neighbours  ?  *  Oh,  yes,'  answer- 
ed she,  *  within  a  w:\lk  ;  aad  Miss  Barnet  is  the 
sweetest  tempered  young  lady  in  the  world.  She 
is  so  good,  she  comes  herself  to  fetch  me  to  pass 
the  day  with  her  and  her  sisters  ;  and  when  I 
am  there  she  amuses  me  in  the  most  obliging 
manner,  notwithstanding  Nurse  says  she  is  very 
proud.'  The  second  time  I  met  this  family,  was 
at  a  large  dinner  party  made  in  honour  of  the 
bride.  Harriet,  although  highly  gratified  by  go- 
ing with  us,  seemed  to  derive  her  principal  plea- 
sure from  seeing  Miss  Barnet.  The  young  lady 
.appeared  not  to  have  forgotten  her  favourite.  She 
placed  her  next  her  at  table ;  and  to  judge  from 
the  whispers  which  passed  from  ear  to  ear,  had 
much  to  say  and  to  hear. 

44  After  dinner  the  lady  of  the  house  proposed 
a  walk  in  the  labyrinth  ;  and  quitting  the  room 
for  this  purpose,  I  perceived  Harriet  and  her 
friend,  arm  in  arm,  taking  a  different  path  from 
that  the  company  were  in.  A  sudden  fog  soon 
made  our  retreat  to  the  house  prudent.  On  re- 
turning thither,  I  saw  the  young  folks  sitting  on 
a  rustic  bench  at  a  little  distance  from  me.  Fear- 
ing Harriet  should  take  cold,  I  turned  to  the  path 
which  appeared  to  me  to  lead  directly  to  war  ere 
her;  but  so  ingeniously  was  this  maze  contrived, 
that  it  conducted  me  behind  the  ladies,  though 
within  hearing. 

"As  I  approached  them,  I  heard  Miss  Barnet 
say,  'So  you  really *hink  she  is  good  natured  ?' 
4  Yes,'  replied  Harriet,  4  I  do  indeed  believe  she 
is.'  i  Ah  !  my  dear  tnrl,'  rejoined  Miss  Bar 
*  she  may  seem  to  ^e  what  you  think  ;  these  are 
early  days:  you  will  soon  find  in   herihe  mother- 


NARRATIVE.  209 

in-lain*]  I  confess,  my  worthy  friend,  that  I  felt 
my  indignation  rise  ;  but  a  moment's  reflection 
sufficed  to  check  it.  I  advanced,  rustling  the 
branches  which  impeded  my  approach,  and  calling 
them  aloud.  They  started  with  surprise,  joining 
me  jli  eminent  confusion.  I  remarked  |hc  change 
in  the  weather,  and  then  instantly  adverted  to  the 
ingenuity  which  had  so  happily  succeded  in  plant- 
ing asnarefor  the  stranger's  feet.  I  believe  my 
.  ease  banished  their  apprehensions  of  having  been 
overheard  ;  but  had  I  wanted  a  clue  to  the  heart; 
of  this  misguided  girl,  I  should  have  found  it  in 
this  little  incident.  I  was  sure  that  the  innocent 
and  unsuspecting  mind  of  a  child  could  not  long 
retain  the  impressions  of  suspicious  ill-will,  when 
opposed  to  uniform  kindness  and  gentleness  ;  but 
I  had  every  thing  to  fear  from  the  pernicious  ef- 
fects of  such  lessons  as  Miss  Barnet's,  and  be- 
came painfully  anxious  for  the  result  of  a  conduct 
on  which  I  had  reposed  as  the  infallible  means  of 
producing  a  change  in  this  child's  prejudiced 
mind,  and  on  which  my  happiness,  as  much  as 
her  own,  depended. 

"  The  boys  happily  gav~  me  no  inquietude. 
They  were  inseparable  ;  and  Frank  left  us  at  the 
end  of  a  month  or  six  weeks  in  triumph,  having 
accomplished  his  purpose  with  his  father  to  place 
him  in  the  same  school  with  his  brother.  Tran- 
quillity succeeded  to  our  late  dissipated  life  ;  and 
somewhat  more  at  my  ease  in  regard  to  Harriet,. 
I  turned  my  attention  to  the  servants.,  I  had 
been  too  much  engaged  to  infringe  on  the  privi- 
leges of  Dawson.  I  had  silently  observed  that 
my  guests  had  been  regaled  with  an  abundance 
which  would  not  have  disgraced  a  lord  mayor's 
fcay  but  there  were  also  proofs  of  her  skill,  no 
less  undeniable.    I  made  her  my  compliments  on 


210  NARRATIVE. 

the  one  and  forbore  to  criticise  on  the  other.  On 
her  bringing  me  her  accounts  to  settle,  I  mention- 
ed with  great  caution  some  regulations  which  I 
wished  to  introduce  ;  these  were  neither  difficult 
nor  mortifying.  I  spoke  of  her  long  and  faithful 
services;  of  her  master's  sense  of  them  ;  and, 
finally,  of  his  intention  of  retrenching  in  some  ar- 
ticles of  expense  to  which  he  affixed  neither  en- 
joyment nor  usefulness.  '  To  be  sure,  madam,' 
answered  she  with  civility,  c  the  bills  rise  very 
high  ;  but  every  thing  is  now  so  dear.'  '  It  is  ve- 
ry true,'  replied  I,  smiling,  c  and  you  have  given 
an  additional  reason  for  economy.  But  you  know; 
your  master,  Mrs.  Dawson ;  his  honour,  his 
comforts  and  independence  will  never  be  barter- 
ed for  idle  parade.  I  doubt  not  but  you  will  rea- 
dily meet  his  wishes — to  me  they  are  commands 
— -plenty,  not  profusion,  is  his  aim.'  She  colour- 
ed, *  I  will  spare  you  some  trouble,'  continued 
I  :  '  I  have  been  in  the  habit  of  visiting  my  larder 
every  morning,  and  my  present  leisure  will  settle 
me  in  my  accustomed  duty.'  Dawson  would  not 
have  been  displeased,  I  believe,  with  an  occasion 
more  ostensible  for  offence  ;  but  attachment  to 
her  master,  and  something  like  respect  for  me, 
repressed  her  displeasure.  She  sooa  discovered 
that  I  was  not  capricious  or  unreasonable,  and 
for  some  time  we  governed  in  our  respective  posts 
very  amicably. 

"  Three  years  after  I  married,  she  quilted  me 
and  engaged  in  business  ;  on  this  occasion  I  serv- 
ed her,  and  received  at  her  recommendation, 
the  widow  of  her  son,  who  is  still  in  my  service. 
I  allow  you  tojsmile,  continued  Mrs.  Davenport. 
at  this  enumeration  of  my  troubles  :  but  I  assure 
you,  even  in  this  point,  they  were  vexatious  ;  my 
firmness  relieved  rae,  but  my  victory  was  not  com- 


NARRATIVE. 

tate.  The  butler  fllund  there  was  no  \W  —  ■ 
Mr.  Davenport's  second  wife:  he  therein 
his  place — and  many  dozen's  of  empty  bottles  in- 
stead of  full  ones  in  the  cellar.  Your  favourite, 
Richard,  with,  the  title  of  Mr-.  Bingham,  took  his 
office.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  sav,  that  I  v  as  as 
much  gratified  as  the  honest  man,  by  this  proof 
of  j$is  master's  favour  ;  for  Richard  had  not  ap- 
peared in  any  way  alarmed  by  Mr.  Davenport's 
change  of  condition.  On  the  approach  of  Christ- 
mas vacation,  I  was  importantly  engaged  one 
morning  in  trimming  a  straw  bonnet  for  Harriet : 
the  Bath  fashion  was  to  direct  our  taste  ;  and  Mr. 
Davenport  v.as  called  upon  -to  decide  on  the  colour 
of  the  ribband.  This  point  settled,  he  said  to  his 
girl,  i  I  dare  say  you  will  not  wear  this  smart 
bonnet  till  your  brothers  arrive.  They  will  be 
here  to-morrow  se'nnight,'  added  he,  giving  me 
a  letter  from  one  of  them  he  had  just  received.-— 
4  We  will  surprise  them,'  continued  he,  .  by  show- 
ing them  what  an  excellent  horse-woman  \ou  are 
become  Harriet.  If  the  weather  permit,  we  will 
meet  them  at  Blandford.'  She  looked  delighted  ; 
t^-Jbut  suddenlv  checking  her  rising  gaiety,  sighed, 
*  Poor  Sally  Madder  !  how  sadly  will  her  holi- 
days pass  this  Christmas  !'  i  Why  so,  my  love*' 
asked  I.  '  Why,'  answered  she,  colouring  like 
scarlet, l  Nurse  says,  she  is  sure  you  will  not  per- 
mit her  to  come  anv  more  to  the  Hail  in  her  va- 
cations from  school. '  c  Nurse  is  mistaken,'  re- 
plied J  ;  nor  had  she  any  ground  for  such  a  sup- 
position. It  is  time  she  should  know  me.  I  am 
incapable  of  depriving  a  mother  of  the  innocent 
and  laudable  satisfaction  of  the  society  of  a  de- 
serving child,  go  and  tell  her  this.'  I  spoke  with 
seriousness,  and  Harriet  retired  abashed. 


212  NARRATIVE. 

"  Oil  entering  her  apartment  some  time  after, 
I  found  Mrs.  Madder's  features  considerably  re- 
laxed. She  thanked  me  with  some  confusion  for 
my  goodness  to  her  daughter.     ' 1  am  sure,'  cried 


gentle  and  ingenious !   I  will  show  you   some    or 
her  work,'  rummaging  the  drawers  as  she  spoke. 

*  These]  presenting  some  articles  of  school  work, 

*  are  nothing  to  what  she  does  now  :  for  she  is  a 
fine  young  woman  at  present,  and  her  governess 
says  she  is  her  right  hand.'  A  summons  from 
the  music-master  stopped  Harriet  in  her  eulogium 
of  Miss  Madder  ;  but  the  subject  was  too  agree- 
able to  Nurse  to  let  it  drop.  She  pursued  it  on 
my  daughter's  quitting  the  room.  '  She  is,  in- 
deed, madam,'  said  she  with  honest  exultation, 
4  an  excellent  young  creature,  she  is  the  pride 
of  my  life.'  *  And  in  that  pride,'  replied  I,  '  you 
may  safely  trust  for  an  evidence  that  you  deserve 
to  have  a  good  child.  But,7  added  I, '  cannot  she  be 
settled  with  us  before  our  young  men  coYne  home  ? 
Gan  you  inform  her  that  you  and  Harriet-will  fetch . 
her  hither  on  Thursday  in  a  carriage-  I  had  inad- 
vertently touched  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Madder,  by  a 
proposal  I  did  not  even  consider  as  a  compliment, 
but  merely  as  an  accommodation;  but  it  seems  that 
Sally  had  heretofore  been  obliged  to  the  coachman 
and  a  pillion  on  these  annual  visits  to  the  Hall., 
The  fond  mother,  subdued  by  this  unexpected  at- 
tention  to  her  child,  bowed  before  my  irresistible 
power.  She  burst  into  tears.  '  You  are  too  good 
madam,'  sobbed  she.  '  I  do  not  deserve  your 
kindness,  for  I  have  not  behaved  well.  I  beg  you"' 
will  hear  my  excuse.. 


NARRATIVE.  Ulo 

i  had  a  cruel  and  wicked  st~p-motherv,  mad am ; 
she  vfas  the  ruin  of  ray  poor  industrious  father: 
she  ny  only    brother  from  his  home  ;  he 

went  to  sea  and  never  has  been  h  -ard  of  since. — 
•She   beat  and  'ill-treated  me  ;   and  robbed  us  al], 
to  supply  her  own  dissolute  son   with  money,  to 
maltii  him  still  more  wicked.     My  father  died  of 

•  a  broken  heart  in  a  gaol.  I  must  have  starved,  or 
done  worse,  had  it  not  been  for  a  sister  of  my 
mother.  She  received  me,  and,  what  was  stiH 
better,  as  her  own  child*  1  remained  with  her 
till  I  married.  My  husband  was  under-tenant  to 
my  master  ;  and  we  lived  very  near  the  Hall.  — 
At  the  death  of  my  husband  I  was  left  with  Sally,, 
and  an  infant  at  my  breast.  Mrs.  Davenport's 
health  was  then  on  the  decline,  and  she  was  una- 
ble to  suckle  her  infant,  Miss  Harriet.  I  was  sent 
for,. -and  for  some  days  took  the  charge  of  her 
and  my  own  child.  My  mistress  was  pleased 
with  me,  and  prevailed  upon  me  to  place  my  baby 
at  nurse,  and  to  remain  with  her.     The  doctors 

&  assured  me  I  was  not  able  to  rear  two,  and  that 
my  infant,  being  a  very  vigorous  one,  would  do 
very  well  without  the  breast.  My  aunt  recom- 
mended to  me  a  compliance,  engaging  to  take  care 
of  Sail}'.  Thus,  madam,  I  became  a  domestic  in 
this  family :  but  my  poor  little  boy  was  the  vic- 
tim," he  drooped  and  died  ;  and  I  was  very  un- 
happy. My  kind  mistress  consoled  and  comfort- 
ed me,  and  my  dear  nursling  throve.  I  know 
not  how  it  was,  but  it  seemed  as  if  God  had  given 
me  this  child  in  the  place  of  that  which  he  had  \ 
called  to  himself.  Four  happy  years  passed. — 
My  mistress  placed  Sally  at  Mrs.  Cravan's,  and 
ordered  that  no  pains  should  be  spared  in  her 
learning;  and  she  often  said,  she  was  providing 
rself  with  another  comfort,     She  was- indeed  a 


^14.  NARRATIVE. 

benefactress  to  me  and  mine!   I  nov,  J  til 

event  of  Irer  approaching  confinement,  I  saw  all 
the  hazard  of  it.  She  lived,  however,  some  day 3 
after  the  birth  of  the  child,  who  died  almost  in- 
staiitly  after  it  was  born.  I  never  quitted  my 
dear  "lady's  bedside  ;  and  I  saw' with  an  aching 
her  trouble  respecting  her  children,  parti- 
V  for  Miss  Harriet.  Some  hours  before  she 
breathed  her  last,  she  requested  of  my  master  that 
I  should  never  be  removed  from  my  attendance  on 
her  daughter.  Ah!  m:wpm,  had  she  requested 
harder  conditions,  they  \v ' '.aid  have  been  complied 
with  f  for  never  did  I  see  such  grief  as  my  poor 
master's., 

"  My  lady  provided  for  Sally's  continuance  at 
school,  and  left  me  an  hundred  pounds*  I  shall 
never  forget  her  last  look,  nor  her  last  words! 
They  were — 4  my  Harriet ! — do  not  forsake  my 
child  !'  That  -I  should  remember  these  words  does 
not  surprise  you,  madam  :  but  I  doat  upon  this 
child,  and  I  have  always  dreaded  my  master's 
marrying  again,  as  the  greatest  misfortune  I  could 
meet  with.  My  own  early  afflictions  were  con- 
stantly coming  into  my  mind ;  for  although  my 
dear  child  had  nothing  to  fear  from  poverty,  I 
well  knew  she"  might  be  miserable  in  abundance. 
I  will  now,  madam,  tell  you  all :  I  verily  believe 
I  could  have  heard  of  the  death  of  my  honoured 
master  with  less  grief  than  I  did  of  his  second 
marriage.  Blessed  be  God!  I  see  I  have  been 
wrong.  My  child,  yes  madam,  my  child  will  be 
I  happy,  and  I  shall  die  in  peace.'  I  was,  my  good 
friend,  much  affected.;  and  with  sincerity  and 
warmth  assured  the  good  creature  that  I  honoured 
her  principles  :  and  from  that  hour  Mrs.  Madder, 
I  believe,  forgot  I  was  a  step-mother.  Her  daugh- 
ter fujly  answered  Harriet's  eulogium,  and  I  soon 


NARRATIVL.  21 


,\V 


at  Mrsi  Davenport's   plans  would  net  be 
rtive. 

"After  the  holidays  we  went  to  town,  Mr. 
Davenport  Laving  secured  a  good  house  in  Ber- 
nefS-street  i\  r  cur  reception.  In  April  he  set  out 
for  Scotland,  in  order  to  settle  the  litigiou's  claims 
of  nw  sen's  unworthv  uncle.  You  already  know 
that  he  neither  liked  the  spirit  nor  the  activity 
the  agent  we  had  chosen,  and  that  he  was  glad  to 
compromise  an  affair  in  which  he  knew  there  was 
not  a  shadow  of  justice,  anel  in  which  had  been 
involveel  the  happiness  of.  his  brother's  widow 
and  the  provision  for  his  child.  Mr.  Davenport 
had  scarcely  reached  the  end  of  his  journey,  be- 
fore poor  Harriet  sickened,  and  a  violent  fei 
succeeded.  It  was  pronounced  contagious  ; 
.Nurse,  on  the  ninth  day,  was  forced  from  her 
charge  by  the  same  alarming  symptoms,  and  ob- 
liged to  retire  to  that  bed  from  which  she  never- 
rose  more. 

u  This  circumstance  influenced  my  conduct,  and 
Mr.  Davenport  was  not  informed  of  Harriet's 
danger  until  it  had  happily  passed.  I  belie 
however,  that  the  fear  of  infection  was  iil-gicu. 
eel ;  for  I  escaped,  although  I  never  ctuitted  the 
sick  room  for  nearly  three  weeks,  anel  no  other  of 
the  family  suffered  except  Nurse.  I  have  always 
attributed  the  fatal  consequences  of  her  illness  to 
her  ungoverned  alarm,  her  excessive  fatigue,  anel 
a  habit  of  body  ill  suited  to  struggle  with  such  a 
malady. 

"  My  cares  were  happily  compensated,  and  my- 
patient  in  a   condition  to  be  removed.     I  lost  not  ^ 
an  hour  in  London,  and  had  the  comfort  of  find- 
ing the  journey  to  the  Kail  less  an  evil  than  I  had 
expeueei.     The  extreme  debility  of  her  mind  and     v^ 
body  appeared  to  have  rendered  her  insensible 


216  NARRATIVE. 

the  loss  she  had  sustained  :  she  was  as  passive  and 
as  helpless  as  an  infant.  In  proportion  is  she 
gained  strength,  I  was  not  deceived  in  my  expec- 
tations of  seeing  her  concern  manifested,  and  I 
was  prepared  to  meet  it.  We  were  never  sepa- 
rate, and  my  attentions  supplied  these  of  her 
faithful  lost  attendant.  When  able  to  move  about 
the  house,  I  observed  that  she  carefully  avoided 
her  former  apartment  and  sleeping- room  ;  and  I 
availed  myself  of  this  circumstance  to  new-model 
them  agreeably  to  the  designs  I  had  before  me. 

"  One  morning  I  found  her  very  languid  and 
dejected.  I  talked  to  her  of  her  father's  return, 
which  we  daily  expected,  of  her  rides  with  him, 
&c.  &c.  in  order  to  divert  her.  She  wept  in  Si- 
lence. I  again  exerted  my  powers.  i  You  will 
think  me  an  ungrateful  creature  (said  she)  but  in- 
deed I  am  only  a  weak  child.  If  I  could  but  for- 
get poor  Mrs.  Madder,  all  would  be  well.  But 
my  dear  mamma,  I  have  been  very  foolish.  I 
thought  I  should  like  to  see  the  nursery.  I  ap- 
proached the  door,  but  I  could  not  open  it  to  erm  r. 
My  heart  died  within  me  ;  all  my  nurse's  kindness 
came  into  my  mind,  and  I  almost  thought  I  heard 
her  voice,  and  her  tender  caution!.  Poor  wo- 
man !  her  love  for  me  cost  her  her  life.'  I  re- 
pressed not  this  effusion  of  grateful  remembrance; 
but  with  seriousness  adverted  to  the  unfavourable 
state  of  Mrs.  Madder's  health  and  her  repugnance 
to  air  and  exercise.  Shf;  became  more  composed, 
but  silent.  At  'length,  faintly  ^miling,  she  said, 
>;Vshall  soon  have  no  mamma's  pillow  to  press. 
p  If  r  am  melancholy  when  my  papa  returns,  you 
will  take  care  that  he  is  net  displeased.  M#ry*ls 
a  very  good-natured  girl,  and  in  time  (sighed  she) 
I  shall  be  accustomed  to  her.'     fc  J  have  no  ihten- 


21f 

tion  (answered  I)  to  make  Mary,  although  a 
ur  companion  cither  by  night  or  by 
lay.  I  have  provided  one  whom  I  hope  my 
Harriet  will  like  better.'  She  looked  with  anxiety 
and  curiosity  in  my  face.  *  I  had  purposed  fetch- 
ing her  hither  to  morrow  (pursued  I  )  ;  1 1  fear 
you  will  not  be  well  enough  for  the  ride.'  4  Is  it 
possible?  (criecl  ;  ih  transport.)   '®h!*I  am 

it  is  Sally  .■'Madder.' 
kt  You  are  perfectly  (right  resumed  I  )  :    she  is 
:hy  of  my  confidence  and  your  love.      Und- 
this  roof  1^  trust  she'wilf  be  happy';     and   that  in 
will  be  reconciled  to  the  loss  of  hergood 
She  will  find  another  in  you,  (excluim- 
rateful  girl  :)  Oh  !   you  are  all  goodness! 
But,  (added  she,  sinking  her  voice  and  fixing 
eyes. on  mine)  Gan  you  believe  thai   we   all  hateclv 
.you  when  you  first  came   here  f*     '  No  answered 
V)  I  cannot;   because    I    know  to  the    contra:}-. 
•  in  the  house. were  capable  of  hating  an  un- 
ndiug  object,  and  a  stranger.     Your   zealous 
chough  humble  friends  taught  yon.  to  believe, 
j  they  believed  it  themselves,  that  as   t: 
1  choice  of  your  father,   I  must  of  course  b< 
the  object  of  their  and  your  abhorrence  :     it  wa 
the  mother-i.'i-Lav,  not  me  that  you  hated.      U h 
der  that  character  you    saw   t!ie    invader    of  ti: 
rights  of  another  ;   the  interested  encroacher  on 
your  father's  fortune,  the   artful  monopolizer  of 
his  affection,  and  the  uhderminer  of  your  interest 
and  the  peace  of  the  family.   In'  a  word,  you  hat- 
ed, and  justly   this   common  enemy,  from  whose Jk 
usurped  authority  you  conceived  there   could   be 
no  appeal   and  from  whose  artful    blandishments 
there  was   every   thing    to  fear*      You  saw    me, 
and  you  saw1  me  invested  with  the  name  you   so 
reasonably  dreaded.    But  you  were  all  soon  con- 


218  NARRATIVE. 


i 


vinced  that  I  bore  no  resemblance  to  this  hideous 
picture  :  and  you  loved  .me  in  my  real  charac- 
ter.' 

-'You  have  indeed  (said  she)  changed  our 
hearts.  It  is  no  wonder  that  you  have  subdued 
mine  :  but  it  is  astonishing  to  me,  that  those  mis- 
taken people  should  so  soon  reverence  you,  and 
bless*th&day  you  came  hither.'  '  The  secret  is  a 
very  simple  one,  my. dear  child  (answered  I :) 
c  the  whole  is  comprised  in  a  single  precept  of  the 
t  gospel :  t  Do  unto  others  what  you  would  they 
should  do  unto  you;'  and  to  this  positive  injunc- 
tion of  our  divine  master  was  superadded  at  a 
very  early  age,  a  conviction  in  my  own  mind,  that 
I  was  only  happy  in  proportion  as  I  contributed 
to  the  happiness  of  those  about  me.  c  But  conti- 
ued  I)  let  not  this  conversation  finish  here.  Let 
me  enjoy  a  full  and  complete  triumph  over  those 
prejudices,  which  have  been  so  injudiciously, 
though  honestly  infused  into  my  Harriet's  inge- 
nuous mind,  and  which  tended  seriously  to  pro- 
duce all  those  evils  she  was  taught  to  apprehend. 
Let  me  not  only  speak  for  myself,  but  also  in  fa- 
vour of  many  respectable  women  in  the  same  pre- 
dicament. You  had  in  your  infancy  a  good  and 
tender  mother.  Her  maternal  cares,  had  it  been 
permitted,  would  have  safely  guided  you  through 
life.  But  have  you  never  heard  of  bad  mothers  ? 
I  have  known  spjne  negligent  of  their  offspring, 
dissipators  of  their  fortunes,  indifferent,  and  even 
careless  of  their  improvemrnt  imvirtue  and  piety 
— nay,  more,  corrupters  of  that  innocence  it  was 
their  duty  to  guard,  by  the  examples  they  placed 
before  them.  I  have  seen  unjust,  cruel  and  weak 
mothers;  some  the  rivals  of  their  blooming- 
daughters;  some  the  selfish  impediments  to  their 
sons    establishment  in  the  world.     I  have  seen 


NARRATIVE.  219 

others,  led  by  a  blind  and  capricious  partiality 
ruin  the  ill-fated  object  of  their  foolish  and  crimi- 
nal preference,  and,  by  their  repulsive  manners, 
condemn  an  unoffending  child  to  dejection  and 
continual  mortification.  Yet  I  do  not  hate  the 
name  of  a  mother.  On  the  contrary,  I  reverence 
it  as  the  most  honourable  designation  in  human 
life  :  and  when  I  see  this  character  supported  by 
the  performance  of  its  duties,  I  regard  it  as  the 
most  important  to  the  real  interests  of  society, 
and  the  most  essential  to  the  happiness  of  man. 
Judge  in  future  by  this  test:  and  wherever  you 
find  the  character  of  the  mother  sustained  with 
integrity,  refuse  not  to  acknowledge  the  right  she 
has  to  love  and  esteem.  But  my  dear  Harriet, 
(pursued  I)  have  you  ever  adverted  to  the  diffi- 
culties which  meet  a  woman  who  stands  in  the 
same  relation  with  myself?  What  do  you  ima- 
gine of  the  sensations  which  oppress  the  heart  of 
a  w.o.man  of  honour  and  delicacy  on  her  first  en- 
trance into  a  family  as  a  mother-in-law  ?  eyed  by 
jealousy  and  suspicion ;  her  most  prudent  plans 
undermined,  and  her  mildest  instructions  brand- 
ed with  the  reproach  of  severity  and  hypocrisy! 
What  think  you  of  my  bridal  visits  ?  For  many 
months  after  I  became  your  father's  \Viie,  my 
dress  was  curiously  and  impertinently  scrutinized, 
in  order  to  detect  some  ornament  which  had  been 
your  mother's  :  you  were  addressed  in  tones  of 
pity  and  tenderness  by  those  who  before  this  event 
took  no  interest, in  your  welfare*:  your  simplicity^ 
was  abused,  and  inquiries  made  [she  blushed 
crimson  deep]  under  the  colour  of  commisera- 
tion, which  were  much  more  disgraceful  to  those 
who  made  them  than  to  me.  Your  father  was  fe- 
licitated with  irony  and  rude  jokes  on  his  marri- 
age, and  your  brother  was  asked  with  a  sneer,  how 


£20  narrative. 

he  liked  his  new  mrfmmu  ?  with  other  impertinen- 
cies,   wfiich   his   good  sense   and  spirit   rcjecu 
wit^'scorn. 

*•  I  sometimes,  dear  girl,  smiled  at  this  poor 
malignity  :  but  I  do  assure  you,  had  I  been  a  few 
years  younger,  or  less  established  in  the  good 
opini  the  virtuous  and   candid,  and,  abov 

all,  in  -llfct  heart  of  my  husband,  its  influence 
would  have  been  pernicious,  an 4  probably  would 
have  pervaded  my  happiness.'  This  conversation 
had  its  effect;  and  Harriet  felt  that  I  was  indeed 
her  mother. 

'•  Before  we  set  out  for  Bland  ford  to  fetch  Miss 
Madder,  I  prevailed  on  Harriet  to  visit  the. desert- 
ed apartments.     I  had  taken  that  opportunity  t« 

.  to  them  a  dressing-closet,  and  to  new-hang 
ancl  furnisn  the  whole.  She  was  pleased  at  the 
change,  and  thought  they  looked  cheerful.  No 
■sooner  vvas  Miss  Madder  arrived,  than  she  led 
her  up  stairs,  to "l  show  her  mamma's  taste.',:  In 
a  few  minutes  she  joined  me  in  the  dining-parlour, 
with  a  saddened  countenance.  '  1  have  been  very 
indiscreet  (said  she  :)  I  should  not  have  con- 
ducted poor  Sail*7  info  those  rooms;  she  is 
weeping  bitterly,  and  begs  to  be  left  alone.'  You 
have  don?  nothing  wrong  (answered  I ;  she  will 
be  more  composed  in  a  little  time  ;  and  as  you 
sleep  there  to-night,  it  is  better  that  her  first  emo 
lions  should  pass.'  c  Does  any  one  dine  with  us 
to-day  ?'  asked  she  reassured,  and  observing  the 
laid  with  three  covers.  I  answered  in  the 
negative.  4  What !  (said  she,  her  eyes  sparkling 
:^y')  '  will  you  permit  Sally  Madder  to  dine 
wkh  you:'  l  Most  assuredly,'  replied  I  with  se- 
4  Do  you  imagine  that  the  person  to 
whom  your  father  and  myself  have  consigned  \ 
re  improvement  can  Be  properly  pi; 


NARRATIVE.  221 

As  your  friend  and  companion,  she  had 
al way jjjf- right  to  a  place  at  the  same  taele  with 
yourseW,  and  with  your  parents  ,*  and  had  not  her 
mother  had  one  peculiarly  apart  from  the  family, 
she  would  never  have  known  any  other  in  this 
house. 

"  But,  my  dear  Harriet,  you  are  now  to  regard 
Miss  Madder  as  something  more  than  Jijur  com- 
panion :  your  affection,  I  know,  cannot  increase  £ 
hut  she  is  entitled  to  a  deference,  in  consequence 
of  that  trust  which  her  conduct  and  talents  have 
procured  her.  Her  claims  on  our  kindness,  high 
as  they  are,  and  disposed  as  we  are  to  admit  them, 
would  not  alone  have  warranted  the  preference  we, 
have  shown  ;  but  she  is  good  and  virtuous,  and 
will  never  mislead  you. 

"  The  fact  was,  that  the  lady  under  whose  care 
this  amiable  girl  had  been  placed  for  the  greater 
part  of  her  life,  perfectly  understood  Her  value; 
her  docility  and  genius  produced  the  design  df 
qualifying  her  for  a  teacher  in  her  school  ;  and 
nothing  had  been  omitted  to  render  her  a  proper 
ant.  The  death  of  her  mother,  and  my  pro- 
posals, induced   Mrs.   C to  give  up  her  own 

interest,  in  favour  of  a  young  person  whom  she 
loved  as  much  as  if  she  had  been  h^r    daughter. 

"  But,  I  have  said,  mv  dear  Mr.  Palmerstone, 
more  than  is  necessary  on  this  head.  You  have, 
distinguished  this  girl's  merit  in  tli£  faithful  and 
judicious  cares  which  now  engage  her  in  this  fa- 
mily ;  my  daughter  and  Miss  Madder  having 
never  been  separated  since  that  day. 

u  My  husband's  return  from  Scotland,  and  the, 

Jpirth  of  my  little  Emily.,  completed  our  domestic 

felicity.     The    autumn   closed  upon  us,  and  Mr. 

D  tvenport  began   to  talk  of  a    removal  to  Ber- 

riers-street  before  the   cold  season  should  be  too 


narrative; 


far  a./  for  the  infant's  safety  and  mine 

week  succeeded  week  without  any  dec  id  ecbgre  pa- 
rations,  we  were  all  happy,  and  reluctant, to  the 
necessary  steps  towards  a  change  of  our  abode* 
"In  this  way  November  had  nearly  closed  ; 
when  one  morning  that  a  hard  frost  covered  the 
ground,  and  a  bright  sun  enlivened  t\ery  object, 
Harriet^gvith  her  friend,  on  their  return  from  a 
ipng  walk,  entered  my  dressing-room,  where  I  was 
seated  with  my  child  on  my  knee'.  l  Oh,  (cried 
:.lie  on  entering)  what  a  pity  it  is  to  give  up  such 
delicious  mornings  as  these  to  that  hateful  Lon- 
don !  You  have  no  idea,  (addressing  me)  of  the 
beauty  of  this  morning  :  how  my  brothers  would 
enjoy  such  in  the  holidays  !'  Her 'face  bore  evi- 
dent marks  of  iis  invigorating  effects ;  it  was 
flowing  with  health  and  animation.  My  husband, 
who  was  reading  in  the  room,  forgot  his  book  :  lie 
^•azed  at  her  with  fond  delight ;  when,  throwing 
uside  her  muff,  she  suddenly  catchtd  up  the  infant 
in  her  arms,  and  said,  l  Plead  for  us  my  cherub  ! 
tell  this  father  of  yours  (carrying  it  towards  i.'n 
that  you  will  climb  his  knee  a  year  the  sooner  for 
staying  here  ;  tell  him  that  we  have  no  frightful 
fevers  here  to  kill  and  harass  our  dearest  friends !' 
She  looked  at  me  with  sensibility.  '  Persuade 
him,  (added  she,  smothering  the  babe  with  her 
caresses)  and  I  promise  you  a  bed  of  roses  in  the 
summeiV  '  i  heartily  wish  (said  I)  that  she  may 
succeed.'  *My  husband,  steadfastly  looking  at 
me,  said,  '  Are  you  serious,  Susan  :'  c  Most  as* 
furedly  (answered  I :)  what  inducements  can  I 
have  to  quit  this  scene  of  endeared  comfort,  be- 
yond that  of  gratifying  your  inclinations?'  *  We" 
(replied  he)  1  am  glad  that  we  understand  each 
other ;  for  I  assure  you  that  your  amusement  vrAs 
the  sole  object  with  me  for  engaging  the  house  h 


town  ;  an:;.  .  I  must  tell  you  that  I  de- 

con  vers: 
ig  up  the  idle 
we  have-not  s< 
■II  it. 
L>  The  t  oung  rrieivs  return  no  . 

. 
their  arrival,  an 

:  worked ;  no 
til  fringe.    Ji'ie  had  sea;  ec  - 
■i  she  heard  the  horses 
f.    i .'.)■:■  VI-.  in  an  instant  at  the  hall 
doer,  with  the  infant  in  her  firms.      I  stood  at  the 
window,  apprehensive  not  of  her  care,  but  of  the 
cokl.     4  See  (cried  she,  before   in,Cy  had  well  dis- 
mpjantecl)  look  at  her  !  look  at  little  Emily  !'  Tjhe 
ers  eagerly  advanced,  and  a  friendly  contest 
hotrid  have*the  first  kiss.     Ah  !  my 
..erstone  !  at  that  moment  I  experienced 
a  pleasure  which  recompensed  me   for  everv  evil 
in-.rny  Jifc  !   c  There  (said  the    lively  .uirse)  take 
her  between  you,'  resigning  her  to  Frank  :   l  only 
do  not  devour  the  marmoset.'   George  now  turned 
to  a  fine  youth,  who  had  till  this  instant  been  the 
unnoticed  spectator  scene.      He  introduced 

Mr,  Berry    to' Harriet,  who   blushing!} ,  but  not 
ungracefully,  led   the  way  to  the  drawing-room, 
where  I  met  them,  and  recovered  my    treasure  t- 
The  stranger  enlivened    our  society  ;   oui    'ball? 
were  brilliant;   and  Miss  Karnv-t  had  many  occa- 
sions "of  seeing   the  moilier-in-iuiu   the   promoter 
barer  of  the  happiness  of  her  family. 
44  Six  happy  years  flew  on  downy    wings   over 
heads.     Harriet    became    the    wife'  of  Mr. 
\  ,  and  our   hearts  exrVUed  in  the  prospect  of 
of  our  condition.      I  fear  we  were 


224  <►  NARRATIVE* 

too  secure  ;  we  forgot  that  misfortune  could  br 
clown  our  fences.  I  lost  my  sweet  child  the  year 
after  Harriet  married.  My  health  was  unequal 
to  .the  shock-;  a  nervous  fever  succeeded,  which 
for  many  months  obstinately  rejected  every  means 
of  relief.  To  you,  my  excellent  friend,  who  so 
nobly  exhibit  the  goodness  of  that  nature  which 
all  have  derived  from  the  pure  source  of  their  ex- 
istence, it  will  be  no  matter  of  surprise  to  hear 
that  I  was  indebted  to  the  grateful  cares  of  my  old 
housekeeper  Dawson,  for  attentions  which  in  no 
small  degree  contributed  to  my  recovery.  This 
worthy  woman  left  her  own  comfortable  ease,  and 
the  care  of  her  own  concerns,  on  the  first  intelli- 
gence of  my  illness,  to  watch  with  unremitting 
patience  by  my  bed-side,  and  to  console  my  weak- 
ened mind  by  her  sootniiigs.  Kad  I  stood  in  need 
of  inducements  for  the  observance  of  one  of  the 
most  binding  of  the  relative  duties  (for  such  I 
will  venture  to  call  kindness  and  consideration  to 
domestics)  I  must  in  this  instance  have  met  with 
them  :  but  to  such  as  do  forget  these  claims  I  will 
sav,  i  Render  your  servants  happy,  respect  their 
ease  and  their  health,  consult  their  interest  and 
security  :  If  they  be  ungrateful,  you  are  unfortu* 
nate,  and  may  be  allowed  to  complain.'  But  I 
forget  myself,  and  my  story  should  finish.  My 
sons  are  now  in  Scotland,  at  George's  pau 
jaouse,  Jbr  which  he  is  probably  as  much  indebted 
To  Mr.  Davenport  as  to.  his  own  father.  These 
vpung  men  are  connected  by  ties  which  the}-  take* 
not  the  trouble  to  define;  their  hearts  have  long 
since  established  them  as  common  blessing 
each  other.  One  interest  unites  them.  Their 
social  pleasures  are  incomplete  when  divided. — 
Their  characters  are  different :  but  this  difference 
forms  another  bond  of  union  ;  the  mild  and  sen- 


NARRATIVE.  225 

►us  disposition  of  George  is  happily  blended  with 
the  brave  and  careless  gaiety  of  Frank,  who,  not 
without  reason,  calls  his  friend  the  4t  Sage  Men- 
tor." You  sec  my  daughter;  she  is  the  well- 
earned  praise  or  my  life.  You  see  my  grand- 
children fondly  soliciting  my  love  and  notice.  ■ 
Vou  see  your  worthy  friend  Davenport  treading 
the  downhill  of  life  with  honour  and  peace  ;  and  . 
you  see  in  me  the  example  that  the  upright  of 
heart,  even  in  this  world,  are  blessed.'' 


t;:;;  west  Indians. 

u  Vou  know  that  I  was  born  in  Jamaica;  and 

that  I  possess  in  that  island  a  consluerable  estate, 
once  the  property  of  my  parent:,.  My  mother 
when  1  was  only  six  months  old.  I  was 
nursed  and  reared  by  a  white  woman,  the  wife  of 
one  of  the  overseers  of  the  plantation  on  which 
we  resided.  This  woman  had  been  my  mother's 
housekeeper,  and  she  continued  to  superintend 
the  domestic  affairs  of  the  family  with  fidelity  ni- 
ter her  decease.  Her  tender  care  in  regard  to 
me  well  merited  the  confidence  which  my  father 
reposed  in  her;  for  she  was  without  reproach, 
unless  her  excessive  indulgence  to  her  charge  be 
'-construed  into  one,  by  that  candour  which  consi- 
ders the  motives  that  governed  her  ;  for  she  I 
.it  an  imputation  on  her  affection  and  respect  foi 
my  mother,  when  a  tear  fell  from  my  eyes* 

u  My  good  father  had  not  altogether  the  same 

apology  for  the  same  weakness  in    regard   lb- his 

for  he  was  a  man  of  sense;  vet  he  treated 


226  NARRATIVE. 

me  with  fondness  as  pernicious  as  that  of  my 
faithful  nurse.  At  ten  years  of  age  it  is  probable 
he  discovered  something  of  this  truth ;  and  in 
spite  of  nurse's  tears,  and  his  own  reluctant  heart, 
he  consigned  me  to  the  care  of  his  friends  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Delmy,  in  order  that  I  might  receive 
that  education  in  London  which  he  despaired  of 
,  obtaining  for  me  under  his  own  eye.  Mrs.  Need- 
ham's  attention  and  tenderness  to  her  pupils  being 
as  fully  established  as  the  reputation  of  her  tal- 
ents and  good  sense,  I  was  accordingly  placed  in 
her  hands,  with  as  many  cautions  as  the  fond 
anxiety  of  Mr.  Deimy  could  suggest. 

"  I  had  never  been  accustomed  to  contradic- •-• 
tion....My  diet  had  been  carefully  attended  to.... 
No  expense  would  be  regarded,  in  which  my 
comforts  and  gratifications  were  included.... No 
attentions  unnoticed.  Mrs.  Needham,  with  the 
utmost  good  htfmour,  engaged  for  all  that  was 
demanded  consistently  with  the  rules  of  her 
house,  and  the  duty  she  imposed  on  herself  to  at- 
tend to  the  health  and  happiness  of  the  young 
people  under  her  care,  as  sedulously  as  to  their 
improvement;  and  with  great  tenderness  satisfi- 
ed Mrs.  Delmy  that  she  had  nothing  to  fear  for 
me.  This  truly  respectable  woman  did  not  de- 
ceive her.  My  friends  left  me  with  a  cargo 
cakes  and  trinkets,  and  as  much  money  in  my. 
purse  as  it  pleased  me  to  take  from  theirs. 

"  The  assistant  ladies,  by  Mrs.  Needham's  di- 
rection I  presume,  left  me  two  or  three  days  to|, 
myself,  in  order,  I  suppose,  that  I  might  be  re- 
conciled to  my  new  situation,  and  become  ac- 
quainted with  my  companions.  I  was  perfectly 
satisfied  with  the  one  and  the  other.  The  pro- 
fuseness,  or,  if  you  will,  the  generosity  of  my 
temper  soon  gained  me  an  interest  with  the  girls 


*i 


NARRATIVE.  ..     227 

ior  I  distributed,  as'  I  received,  without  discre- 
tion ;  and  being  as  I  realty  was,  good-humoured, 
the  teachers  treated  me  with  smiles  and  affability. 
I  waseonducted  with  much  consideration  to  the 
business  of  the  school,  and  masters  in  their  dif- 
ferent branches  engaged  to  admit  me  as  a  pti, ■;!  ; 
but  a  very  weeks  sufficed  to  convince  those  * 
geci  wth  my  instruction,  that  they  were  employ- 
ing their  time  fruitlessly.  A  supine  carelessness 
baffied  all  their  honest  endeavours,  and  defeated 
every  attempt  towards  my  reformation.  Good- 
humoured  and  gay,  I  was  content  with  all  around 
me  whilst  left  to  the  enjoyment  of  myself.  A 
slattern  in  my  appearance,  notwithstanding  all  the 
attention' that  was  given  to  me  ;  perfectly  indiffer- 
ent to  the  expensive  distinctions  Mrs.  Delmyrs 
fondness  contrived  to  give  to  my  dress  ;  1  onlr 
regretted  the  labour  annexed  to  every  additional 
ribband.  I  never  shall  forget  the  sufferings  I  en- 
dured, on  first  being  in  this  house,  and  condemn- 
ed to  put  on  my  own  shoes  and  stockings you 

may  laugh  if  you  please— but  I  do  assure  you, 
that  could  I  havjs  effected  my  purpose,  I  should 
have  slept  in  them.  I  regarded  the  time  allotted 
me  for  getting  my  lessons  as  destined  for  my  re- 
pose, and  every  exhortation  to  diligence  as  con- 
taining nothing  more  serious,  than  as  it  obliged 
me  to  stand  on  my  legs.  I  was  a  clumsy  girl,  al- 
though tall  for  my  age  ;  inert  in  all  my  move- 
ments, and  inexpressibly  fatigued  by  the  most 
-moderate  exercise.  The  forbearance  of  the 
teachers  and  masters  was  exhausted — it  is  proba- 
ble they  had  no  authority  to  compel  me  to  dili- 
gence by  severe  means,  at  least  none  were  used — 
Hhej  became  careless  of  a  pupil  from  whom  no- 
thing was  to  be  expected.  Lounging  on  a  form, 
or  squatted  on  my  knees,  I  was  the  life  and  spir- 


228  N-AURA'i  : 

it  of  the  little  circle  ;  and  often  have  1  triumpl 
in  drawing  reluctant  smiles' from  the  grave  mas- 
ters and  teachers. 

u  In  this  way  passed  the  first  six  months  of  my 
noviciate — I  believe  I  may  say,  beloved  by  all, 
and  despised  byL all,  however  paradoxical  it. may 
sn.'in.l.  The  vacation  returned  me  to  my  friends 
the  Defrays,  where  I  was  only  questioned  rela- 
rively  to  my  comforts  and  indulgences.  As  I 
had  no  complaints  10  make,  and  had,  in  the  full 
enjoyment  of  my  ease,  forgotten  every  former 
invasion  of  it,  I  spoke  with  pleasure  of  my  gov- 
erness and  her  family.  Mrs.  Delmy  was  delight- 
ed and  grateful.  On  my  return  to  school,  the 
carriage*  was  furnished  with  elegant  little  presents 
for  the  'good  ladies  who  superintend  in  Mrs. 
Needham's  house  ;  and  even  the  assistant  cook 
had  reason  to  remember  the  West  India  yottitg 
lady.  ^ 

^  Upon  distributing  my  gilts,  on  the   day  fol 
lowing  my  arrival,  I  found  that  one  of  the  teach- 
crs  had   given    place  to  a  new   one.      She  was  a 
very  elegant  young    woman,   with   whose  p- 
and  manners  I  was  immediately  struck.     1  6l 
ed    her,    with    my  usual   eagerness,    the  present 
which   had   been  destined  for  her  predecessor. — 
She  declined  it  with  sweetness  and  politeness,  tel- 
ling me,  '  Mrs.  Needham  could  with  ease  convey 
it  to  the  laxly  for  whom  it  had  been  intended  ;  and 
such  a  remembrance  from- you   now,'  added  she, 

will  be  doubly  grateful.'      I  felt  she   was  righq^ 
and  loved  her  for   a  generosity,    which  somehow 
had  appeared  to  me  less  general  than  I  had  been 
accustomed  to  think  it.     1  soon  disco-  .red  that  I 
was  in  a  particular  manner  unci  in- 

spection.     1    also  rem; 
chalence..  that  mv  . 


NARRATIVE.  229 

lessons*     Day  succeeded  day,   and  I  was  left  to 
my  own  pleasure.      If  I  worked  at  my  frame,  it 
was.well:  if  I  netted  it  was  the  same.     No  pri- 
vations, no  lectures  followed.     No  one  disturbed 
my  repose  ;  and   although  the  slave  of  sloth,  I 
began  to  be  weary  of  an  idleness  which  admitted 
of  no  variety.     I  asked  Miss  Courtney,  the  new 
teacher,  why  she  om  tted  me  in  her  assignment  of 
tasks  to  the  young  ladies  ?     4  It  is,"   replied  she 
with  a  serious  air,  ^because  we  presume  that  you 
are  not  sent  hither  in  order  to  be  instructed  !' — 
4  Why,'  answered  I,  *  for  what  other  purpose  do 
you   imagine  that  I  am  here  ?'     '  To  eat,  and  to 
drink,   and  to   sleep,'   returned  she.      An    acute 
sensation  of  shame   passed   my  mind.      I  endea- 
voured to  conceal  it,  and,  with  assumed  gaiety, 
exclaimed,  4  What  can  be  more  pleasant  ?'  'True,' 
answered  she  :   l  to  hunger   and  labour  they  are 
indeed  gratifications;   but  methinks  that,  in  order 
for  your  enjoyment  of  these  blessings  of  nature, 
there  was  no  necessity  for  your  crossing  the  At- 
1  mtic'      I  was  haltering  from  her  to  hide  a  vex- 
ation, which  in  spite   of  me   rose   to   my  eyes  ; 
when  she  said  mildly,  v  The  young  ladies  are  all 
engaged  :    you   will    only    interrupt     them  :     do 
me  the  favour  to  stay  with  me.     Mrs.  Needham 
has  kindly  given  me  this  morning  for  the  purpose 
of  arranging  my  books  and  clothes.  If  I  dared,  I 
would  request  your  assistance  :   all  these  trunks 
must  be   emptied   before    I  shall   feel  myself  at 
home. — '  Oh  !'  cried    I,  joyfully  squatting  down 
by  the   side,   of  one    of  them,  '  I    will   help  you 
with   the    greatest  pleasure'     ■  There   are  some 
new  shelves,'  observed  Miss  Courtney:   I  doubt 
not  I  owe   them  to   Mrs.   Necdham's  attention. 
You  shall    take   out   the   books   and  I  will   place 
them.'     This   was   an  employment  quite  in  mv 
17 


130  NARRATIVE.    f, 

way.  I  drew  without  exertion  the  books  from 
the  box,  and  placed  them  on  the  floor  around  me. 
The  two-fold  duty  of  Miss  Courtney,  to  pick 
them  up  and  place  them  properly,  cost  her  more 
time  and  labour ;  whilst  I,  sitting  at  my  ease,  ex- 
amined the  lettered  volumes  about  me.  Mrs. 
Chapone's  works  elegantly  bound,  attracted  my 
curiosity — on  the  blank  page  was  beautifully  writ- 
ten, "  Prize  Book,  Miss  Courtney.'  A  neat  rose- 
wood Norway  drawing  stand,  a  box  of  Reeve's  co- 
lours, a  set  of  historical  medals,  and  several 
other  books  in  French  and  Italian,  passed  my 
hand  with  the  same  designation. 

"  Had  you  a  yearly  lottery  at  your  school  ?'  de- 
manded I. — c  No,' answered  she  'nothing  was 
allowed  there  to  chance  :  application  and  industry 
were  the  only  means  of  profit  permitted  by  the 
lady  who  presided  in  it :  these  she  encouraged 
by  donations  which  were  distributed  every  six 
months  ;  a  fund  being  established  by  the  parents 
of  the  young  ladies  for  the  purpose,  and  to  which 
she  liberally  subscribed.  I  have  often  reflected 
on  that  wisdom  and  address  with  which  she  ex- 
cited emulation  and  restrained  envy,  by  an  impar- 
tiality so  measured  as  to  leave  no  room  for  dis- 
content:  nor  can  I  forget  the  value  she  set  on 
good  nature*  for  which  the  first  prize  was  always 
destined  and  the  candidate  judged  by  her  compa- 
nions; '  These  little  evidences  of  my  indu 
continued   she,  sitting  down  and  turning  one  in 

hand, ^ are   now.  my  treasure.     They  serve 
me  as   powerful   stimulativts  to  those  exer 

that   activity  they  once  rewarded.     You  i an 
hardly  imagine  how  much  they  have  contributed 
to  produce  in  my  mind  those  habits  of  patience 
fine',  perseverance,  without  which  it  is  impo< 
to  attain  to  any  thing  valuable.   To  say  the  truth. 


ATIVE.  231 


they  have  done  more ;  for  they  have  introduced 
such  a  love  of  employment,  that  with  me  time 
unoccupied  is  burthensome ;  and  I  should  prefer 
the  rudest  labour  to  idleness.^ 

"  I  saw  her  design,  and  I  also  felt  it.  '  I  doubt 
not,'  said  I  sorrowfully,  *  the  truth  of  what  you 
say ;  but  I  dare  say  that  you  had  a  good  mother 
to  instruct  you  before  you  went  to  school.  I  had 
none  to  guide  me.'  She  turned  pale.  I  also 
lost  mine,'  replied  she  sighing,  i  at  a  very  early 
age;  but  that  loss  made  me  acquainted  with  a 
friend  not  less  valuable.  But  we  are  becoming 
grave,'  said  she,  rising,  '  and  you  will  be  weary. 
I  can  with  ease  finish  the  rest  by  leaving  my  bed 
an  hour  earlier  than  ordinary  to  morrow  morning. 
She  now  displayed  to  me  her  drawings;  and  a 
port  folio  of  botanical  plants  beautifully  preserv- 
ed and  arranged,  and  with  the  most  sweet  and 
fascinating  manners  engaged  my  attention  and  ad- 
miration. The  first  dinner-bell  surprised  us.  *  Is 
it  possible  V  cried  I.  It  cannot  be  so  late  !'— -cOh5 
yes,'  replied  Miss  Courtney,  '  it  certainly  is :  I 
ask  myself  the  same  question  very  often.  Em- 
ployment gives  wings  to  time,'  added  she,  affqg- 
tionately  pressing  my  hand,  '  but  in  its  rapid 
flight  it  leaves  memorials  not  less  honourable 
than  salutary.'  On  quitting  her  for  my  hasty 
toilet,  I  asked  her  whether  I  might  come  to  help 
her  in  the  morning.'  She  laughed,  4  You!'  said 
she,'  with  an  ironical  tone:  '  why  I  shall  rise  at 
six  o'clock!  Do  you  consider  such  conditions 
as  these?  <*  Yes,'  answered  I  piqued,  l  and  why 
should  I  not  be  able  to  rise  at  the  same  hour  .? 
4  Nay/  replied  she  in  the  same  gay  tone,  '  now 
indeed  you  puzzle  me.  Shall  we  put  it  to  the 
the  test  ?  I  shall  be  obliged  to  you  for  your 
company.5 


232  NARRATIVE. 


"  The  spring  of  my  watch  being  broken,  I  had 
no  other  means  than  to  apply  to  the  house  clock. 
There  was  no  danger  of  my  not  hearing  it  strike, 
yet  I  was  uneasy  .and  restless  :  all  the  latent 
powers  of  my  mind  seemed  roused;  and  the  re- 
flection that  I  should  not  long  be  Miss  Courtney's 
favourite  was  actually  oppressive  to  me.  Some- 
thing very  much  like  selfcondemnation  haunted  my 
spirits  :  I  calculated  again  and  again  my  acquire- 
ments, with  those  it  was  probable  Miss  Court- 
ney possessed  at  my  age,  and  I  experienced  a 
shame  and  regret,  into  which  glided  a  sentiment 
altogether  unknown  to  me  before ;  that  is  to  sayy 
the  disappointed  expectations  of  my  father.  I 
shed,  my  dear  Mrs.  Palmerstone,  tears  of  real 
contrition.  The  result  of  my  cogitations  was  a 
resolution  to  imitate  Miss  Courtney  with  all  possi- 
ble diligence.  My  watchfulness  preceded  the 
time,  and,  mistaking  the  hour,  I  rose  at  five 
o'clock.  Impenetrable  darkness  surrounded  me  : 
but  no  ways  dismayed  by  a  situation  so  new  to 
me,  I  took  my  bundle  of  clothes,  which  I  had 
used  the  precaution  to  collect  together,  and  step- 
ped across  the  passage  that  led  to  Miss  Courtney's 
room.  She  was  asleep  when  I  entered  the  apart- 
ment, and  I  believe  she  would  not  have  been  sor- 
ry had  I  been  so  likewise.  It  was  dreadfully  cold, 
and  her  first  care  was  to  recommend  to  me  dis- 
patch in  dressing :  she  then  with  much  cheerful- 
ness congratulated  me  on  my  victory,  and  instant- 
ly arose.  The  fire  was  replenished,  and  the  R 
lamp  gave  place  to  two  candles  ;  all  took  an  air 
of  comfort ;  but  I  thought  her  immeasureably 
long  in  her  dressing  and  attendant  duties. 

u  To  say  the  truth,  these  included  attentions 
which  I  seldom  thought  of  when  left  to  myself. 
\tlast  miss  Courtney  placed  herself  by  me  With 


NARRATIVE*  »3 

all  the  graces  of  neatness  and  simplicity.  We 
proceeded  to  our  business,  and  I  was  disposed  to 
be  very  alert :  but  my  curiosity  was  so  often  in 
action,  that  I  believe  I  was  a  more  importunate 
questioner  than  useful  assistant.  Sometimes  ar- 
tificial flowers  came  in  the  way — then  a  set  of 
dressing-boxes  in  filigree — now  a  worked  gown, 
and  now  miniatures  of  ladies.  These  I  exam- 
ined with  attention,  and  asked  her  '  whether  the 
friend  she  had  mentioned  was  amongst  them  ? 
though,'  added  I,  *  they  all  appear  too  young,  ex- 
cept this,'  directing  her  eyes  to  one  I  held  in  my 
hand.  '  That,'  replied  she,  c  is  the  picture  of  my 
good  governess.  But  you  say  truly  :  the  friend 
I  alluded  to  has  lineaments  very  different  from  a~ 
ny  you  see  at  present ;  she  has  neither  the  smiles 
and  graces  of  youth,  nor  the  sobered  sweetness 
of  maturity.  You  will  find  them  however,  pret- 
ty faithfully  delineated  in  this  packet,'  giving  me 
one  sealed  up  ;  c  put  it  in  your  pocket  for  the 
present,  we  have  no  time  to  snare.'  I  obeyed, 
and  took  up  several  bundles  neatly  tied  up  and 
ticketed.  One  was  muslin — va  frock  for  Emily/ 
— another,  l  dimity  for  Charles'— -estch  bore  their 
several  destinations,  You  have  then,'  said  I, 
brothers  and  sisters  ?  You  are  more  fortuna^ 
than  I  am.' — '  Those/  replied  she,  '  whom  affec- 
tion has  bestowed  upon  me,  and  allows  me  to  con- 
sider as  such  :  but  nature  has  denied  me  that 
blessing.  The  trifles  you  see  are  intended  for 
the  use  of  a  friend  in  the  country  :  she  has  a, 
young  family,  and  accepts  with  kindness  the  of- 
firings  of  gratitude.:  her  ingenuity  and  industry 
give  a -value  to  tjiese  half-worn  clothes,  which 
spare  her  husband  expenses  that  woufd  otherwise 
j  on  his  limited  income,'—4 1  wish,'  cried  ,1 


234  NARRATIVE,     j 

'  she  had  some  of  my  things  !  Do,  my^dear  Miss 
Courtney,  manage  to  put  in  some    of  my   frocks 

—Mrs.    Delmy    will  be    so    pleased  !'- Oh  !' 

said  she  involuntarily,  '  that  I  may  but  succeed  !* 
1 — 4  Do  not  doubt  it,'  cried  I  gaily,  misconceiving 
her  meaning.  Mrs,  Delmy  will  send  you-  plenty 
of  things  !'  She  kissed  me  with  tenderness,  and 
an  emotion  that  I  ascribed  solely  to  pleasure  :  my 
contentment  was  complete,  and  my  vivacity  un- 
restrained. 

"  On  our  leaving  the  room,  she  said  to  me 
with  a  significant  smile,  '  My  dear  miss  Weni- 
worth,  as  you  are  not  always  employed,  it  may 
be  you  will  not  be  displeased  to  visit  this  apart- 
ment sometimes  :  when  I  am  in  it,  you  will  al- 
ways be  a  welcome  guest ;  and  in  my  absence,' 
added  she,  looking-at  her  book-case,  4  my  friends 
will  be  yours.'  I  thanked  her  with  real  gratitude, 
and  the  same  day  availed  myself  of  this  permis- 
sion, in  order  to  examine  at  my  ease  the  impor- 
tant packet,  which  I  conceived  contained  some 
very  interesting  secret. 

M  On  entering  the  room  I  was  struck  by  the 
neat  arrangement  of  it,  which  a  cheerful  fire  no 
ways  disgraced.  Some  beautiful  landscapes 
were  hung  round  it — in  the  middle  of  the  room 
stood  a  table  and  reading-desk,  inimitably  exe- 
cuted, so  as  to  resemble  the  finest  marble — and 
near  the  fire  a  frame  of  embroidery,  which  Miss 
Courtney  had  just  left :  in  a  word  I  conceived  I 
was  in  the  temple  of  taste  ;  a  view  -of  my  own 
negligent  person,  reflected  from  the  opposite  mir- 
ror, convinced  me  that  I  was  an  unfit  inhabitant 
of  it ;  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  tried  to 
settle  my  hair  into  some  order.  I  now  with 
much  circumspection  broke  the  seal  of  my  pack- 
et 


NARRATIVE.  ~Jj 


MY    DEAii    Miss     WE  NT  VV.OF,  MI, 


u  You  will  perhaps  find  some  difficulty  in 
conceiving  that  a  similarity  of'  condition  has  ever 
subsisted  between  \ ourself  and  me,  opbosed,  as  it 
is  at  present,  by  my  situation  in  life  ;  for  it  is  on- 
ly from  our  own  experince  that  we  are  effectualle 
taught  to  admit  the  full  conviction  of  the  insta- 
bility of  human  prosperity.  Yet  I,  like  yourself 
was  the  only  daughter  cf  a  rich  West- India 
planter,  I,  like  yourself,  was  the  fond  hope  cf* 
my  parents  :  I  was  yet  more  favoured  by  Pro- 
vidence than  yourself;  for  I  had  a  mother's  love, 
a  mother's  fostering  care.  Like  yourself,  I  was 
sent  to  this  country  for  the  purpose  of  instruc- 
tion ;  my  mothers  modest  worth  yielding  to  the 
wishes  cf  my  father  who  judged  his  child  enti- 
tled to  the  most  elaborate  education.  Like  you, 
under  the  protection  of  friends,  did  I  reach  Lon- 
don ;  and  like  vou  was  I  consigned  into  the 
hands  of  those  who  my  fond  parents  believed 
would  supply  to  me  their  watchful  tenderness. 
Here  all  similarity  between  us  ends.  I  found  no 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Delmy's  cordial  looks  and  kind 
greetings ;  I  was  conveyed  from  the  ship  to  a 
large  and  comfortless  house,  by  the  friends  who 
had  taken  charge  of  me  on  the  voyage,  and  who 
very  exactly  calculated  that  this  care  finished  the 
moment  we  set  our  feet  on  shore. 

•'  A  plain  sturdy-looking  man  received  me  in 
what  I  found  was  his  accompting  room.  Several 
men  were  at  their  desks,  and  he  instantly  dis- 
patched one  of  them  to  see  after  *  miss's  luggage.' 
His  words  to  me  were  few,  but  civil  :  he  said  he 
would  conduct  me  to  his  wife,  who  would  be  ve- 
ry glad  to  see  me,  and  would  take   care-  of  me, 


■2S&  NARRATIVE* 

This  wife  I  found  dressing  in  an  apartment 
•\hicb  appeared  tome  suffocating  and  gloomy,  al- 
though very  fine.  My  introduction  was  brief  : 
for  he  said  c  Here  is  Miss  Courtney  safe  and 
.sound,'  and  immediately  disappeared.  The  lady 
of  the  mansion  asked  me  a  few  questions  relative 
to  my  voyage,  but  I  could  only  answer  by  mono- 
syllables. My  spirits  were  depressed,  and  my  sit- 
uation did  not  encourage  me  :  it  was  apparent  I 
was  in  her  way  \  and  after  a  pause  of  some  mo- 
ments she  said,  perhaps  Miss  Courtney,  you  will 
be  amused  with  my  young  folks.  I  will  conduct 
you  to  them.'  She  led  the  way,  and  I  followed  to 
the  attic  story.  In  a  large  nursery  were  two 
boys  and  two  girls  :  the  oldest  of  them  appeared 
to  be  eight  or  nine  years  of  age;  I  was  twelve, 
and  had  long  ceased  to  consider  myself  as  a  suit- 
able companion  for  infants.  Mrs.  Brown  thought 
otherwise,  and  I  became  from  that  hour  the  daily 
inhabitant  of  the  nursery,  till  I  was  placed  in  a 
school.  My  rude  and  noisy  associates  were  lit- 
tle calculated  to  reconcile  me  to  my  prison,  or  to 
banish  those  regrets  that  pressed  on  my  heart  at 
the  recollection  of  my  parents,  and  of  the  para- 
dise I  had  quitted.  Mrs.  Brown's  consolations 
on  seeing,  as  she  might  have  done  very  frequent- 
ly, my  eyes  red  with  weeping,  were  not  of  the 
most  soothing  kind ;  for  they  commonly  finished 
by  asking  me,  4  what  I  was  to  do  at  school,  if  I 
could  not  make  myself  easy  with  her. 

u  The  time  for  this  experiment  was  now  fixed  ; 
and  notwithstanding  the  implied  discouragement 
contained  in  Mrs.  Brown's  interrogation,  I  rejoic- 
ed at  the  prospect  of  a  change  in  my  situation. 
I  saw  with  curiosity  and  surprise  the  preparations 
which  were  made  for  my  appearance  at  school ; 
and  my  introduction  into  one  of  the  first  semina- 


NARRATIVE.  <23T 

ties  in  town  appeared  to  me  no  less  extraordina- 
ry ;  for  Mrs.  Brown  announced  me  as  a  young- 
lady  of  immense  fortune,  to  whom  every  conside- 
ration was  due — the  child  of  Mr.  Brown's  most 
intimate  friend — and  one  whom  they  both  esteem- 
ed very  highly.'  The  lady,  to  whom  she  address- 
ed her  discourse  of  my  riches  and  importance, 
appeared,  however,  very  much  at  her  ease,  and 
contented  herself  with  saying,  4  she  hoped  we 
should  be  satisfied  with  each  other.'  Indeed  her 
house  and  family  were  well  calculated  to  make 
me  forget  the  attic  story  on  Dowgate  Hill.  The 
comforts  with  which  the  former  abounded,  and 
the  unaffected  kindness  and  politeness  of  the  lat- 
ter, soon  restored  me  to  my  native  gaiety.  I  only 
wanted  news  from  Jamaica  to  complete  my  hap- 
piness. The  packet  was  hourly  expected.  It 
arrived.  You  will  easily  recall  to  your  memory 
those  dreadful  hurricanes  and  tremendous  thun- 
der-storms which  so  frequently  appal  the  firmest 
minds  during  the  heat  of  our  summers  :  but  few 
indeed,  have  been  the  examples  of  an  overwhelm- 
ing destruction  like  that  which  In  the  space  of  a 
few  hours  swept  with  unpitying  fury  over  my 
dearest  hopes.  Parents,  domestics,  the  very  earth 
on  which  my  infant  feet  first  trod,  all  were  buried 
in  one  sad  desolation.  The  habitation  of  peace, 
and  the  residence  of  the  mild  virtues  of  benevo- 
lence and  humanity,  served  them  for  a  grave. 
The  smiling  face  of  nature  around  suddenly- 
changed,  and  horror  reigned  with  all  the  signs  of 
woe  and  ruin.  Judge,  my  dear  Miss  Wentworth, 
by  this  catastrophe,  of  the(  terrific  aspect  which 
adversity  can  assume,  under  the  all-controuling 
power  of  the  great  and  Almighty  Arbiter  of 
events. 


258  NARRATIVE. 

"  I  was  too  young  to  meet  her  awful  form  with 
those  arms  which  religion  furnishes ;  I  was  also 
happily  too  young  to  feel  the  full  force  of  her  ch?s- 
tening  hand.  My  grief  was  the  sorrow  of  a 
child,  and  I  sunk  into  a  bed  of  sickness,  and  a 
temporary  forgetfulness  of  the  cause  which  had 
conducted  me  to  it.  My  life  was  despaired  of 
for  some  days :  but  I  gradually  recovered  to 
symptoms  of  as  alarming  a  kind  ;  for  the  physi- 
cians pronounced  me  in  a  "consumption.  I  was 
now  removed  from  the  tender  care  of  my  govern- 
ess, who,  for  reasons  long  since  apparent  to  me, 
had  charged  herself  with  the  care  of  me  during 
my  violent  illness,  and  had,  under  various  preten- 
ces, prevented  my  removal  to  Dowgate-Hill,  un- 
til she  learned  that  I  was  to  accompany  Mrs. 
Brown  and  her  young  family  into  Hampshire, 
where  they  usually  resided  in  the  Summer.  She 
then  yielded  to  an  authority,  which  she  had  no 
right  to  dispute,  and  I  quitted  her  with  a  reluc- 
tance no  ways  favourable  to  my  dejected  mind. 

a  I  had  wept  solely  for  the  loss  of  my  parents. 
The  change  in  my  condition  had  been  communi- 
cated to  me  by  Mrs.  — *— ,  with  a  tenderness  that 
rendered  it  an  evil  so  light,  compared  with  the 
object  of  my  sad  regrets,  that  I  scarcely  thought 
it  one  :  yet  inexperienced  and  unprepared  as  I 
was,  I  felt  the  difference  between  the  impoverish- 
ed orphan,  and  the  great  fortune  Miss  Courtney* 

"  The  usual  time  of  the  vacation  had  now  elaps- 
ed some  weeks,  and  I  heard  nothing  of  my  re- 
turn to  my  school,  and  to  a  friend  whom  I  re- 
vered and  loved.  Rendered  timid  by  Mrs. 
Brown's  indifference,  I  did  not  dare  to  enquire 
into  a  matter  so  much  the  object  of  my  solicitude. 
I  knew  the  school  was  an  expensive  one,  and  I 
knew  also  that  I  was  become  poor.     The  expla- 


NARRATIVE.  239 

nation,  however,  came  at  length  in  Mrs.  Brown's 
way.  She  informed  me  that  her  husband  was 
corning  down,  and  th.it  then  I  riouid  be  disposed 
of,  suitably  to  my  unfortunate  chan^r  of  circum- 
stances :  l  For,'  added  she,  '  you  must  be  sensible 
that  the  school  you  have  quitted  will  noc  do  now: 
a  different  education  must  now  be  adopted.'  I 
made  no  reply  :  my  spirits  rose  at  the  prospect 
of  leaving  a  family  in  which  I  clearly  perceived 
my  poverty  was  more  considered  than  my  com- 
fort. 

"  Shortly  after  Mr.  Brown's  arrival,  we  set  out 
for  the  destined  school.  On  our  little  journey, 
m>  conductor  talked  to  me  with  kindness,  said 
4  I  should  want  nothing — that  the  gentlewoman 
with  whom  I  was  going  to  live,  was  as  worthv  a 
lady  as  any  in  the  country,  and  would,  he  was 
certain  treat  me  with  great  kindness' 

"  The  reception  I  met  with  from  my  newr  go- 
verness was  an  additional  evidence  of  Mr. 
Brown's  care  of  my  interest,  and  he  left  me  con- 
tented and  grateful.  I  was  highly  gratified  by 
finding  myself  included  in  all  the  lessons  or  the 
masters  :  and  judging  this  a  favour  I  owed  to  the 
generosity  of  Mr.  Brown,  I  assiduously  studied 
to  profit  from  it  bv  an  appll.tion  which  would 
best  mark  my  gratitude.  During  a  year  I  was 
under  this  persuasion,  and  diligently  improved 
every  hour  I  could  spare,. in  French  and  drawing; 
whilst;,  from  my  natural  taste  for  music,  I  made 
such  a  proficiency  in  it  as  flattered  my  instruc- 
tor. 

"  The  ensuing  summer  I  was  again  the  guest 
of  Mrs,  Brown  for  the  holidays.  She  wras,  or 
affected  to  be,  surprised  at  my  attainments,  which 
had  been  called  out  bv  some  company  She  had-in 
the  house.     She  learned  that  I  had  received  fes- 


£4$  NARRATIVE. 

sons  which,  with  a  face  glowing  with  anger,  she 
told  me  were  quite  useless  to  me,  and  that  Mr. 
Brown  had  imposed  upon  her,  for  no  such  need' 
less  charges  were  included  in  my  year's  bill  of 
expense,  although  it  was  heavy  enough.  Mr. 
Brown,  I  imagine,  satisfied  his  lady;  but  it  re- 
mained an  enigma  to  me,  which  Mrs.  Ward  only 
could  unravel.  She  had,  from  the  first  hour  I 
entered  her  house,  shown  me  a  marked  protec- 
tion, which  could  only  be  accounted  for  from  the 
general  and  leading  traits  of  her  character.  An 
ardent  good  will  and  the  most  active  benevolence 
directed  all  her  actions.  Prompt  to  assist,  she 
proportioned  her  services,  rather  to  the  wants  of 
others,  than  to  her  own  means,  which,  though  not 
scanty,  were  yet  not  abundant.  I  was  unfortu- 
nate, young,  helpless  and  innocent ;  and  no  con- 
dition of  prosperity  could  have  given  me  such 
powerful  claims  on  her  heart ;  and  from  this  ge- 
nerous compassion  sprang  the  tenderness  of  a 
mother,  and  the  zeal  and  activity  of  the  most  up- 
right guardian. 

Four  happy  vears    was  I   sheltered  under  her 
maternal   roof,  unnoticed   by   Mrs.  Brown,    al- 
though within  twenty   miles    of  her.      Her   hus- 
band occasionally  called  in  his  way  to  and  from 
London,  and,  as  I  concluded,  settled  for  my  main- 
tenance writh  Mrs.  Ward,  to   whose  discretion  I 
was  apparently   consigned.     In   one  of  these  vi- 
^      sits  he  gave  me  to  understand  that  I  was  expect- 
ed to  pass  the  ensuing  vacation  at  his  house,  and 
desired  me  to  be  prepared  for  his  calling  to  take 
me  thither.     I  felt  that  this  invitation  included 
|  in  it  more   privations,  not  to  sa;>  mortifications, 
v*  than  even  gratitude  could  reconcile  me  to;  and  I 
ventured    to    say  something   respecting  engage- 
ments which  Mrs.  Ward  had  permitted  me  to 


NARRATIVE*  241 


make,,  with  several  of  the  young  ladies  who  lived 
very  near  us.  But  no  appeal  was  regarded  ;  and 
he  talked  of  the  pleasure  I  should  have  in  run- 
ning about  the  garden,  With  his  children,  as  if  I 
had  but  just  then  quitted  my  leading-strings. 

"  Mrs.  Brown,  on  seeing  me  as  tall  as  I  now 
am,  thought  me,  I  presume,  rather  too  old  fofra 
constant  inmate  of  the  nursery;  but  she  didvme 
ample  justice  in  conceiving  that  I  might  be  useful 
to  the  regulation  of  it.  The  boys  had  been 
emancipated  ir>m  it ;  they  had  been  placed  in  a 
country  school  near  their  grandfather,  with  whom  - 
they  passed  their  vacations:  the  two  girls  were 
yet  taught  to  regard  it  as  a  favour  to  quit  it  for 
their  mother's  society.  They  were  line  children, 
but  neglected  ;  and  Mrs.  Brown,  with  something 
between  a  compliment  and  a  command,  desired 
me  to  teach  them  the  use  of  their  needle,  and  to 
read.  4  You  will  find  amusement,  I  hope,'  added 
she,  '  in  this  application  of  your  leisure  time, 
*tkiririg  my  absence.  At  dinner  this  unlooked-for 
absence  was  explained  to  the  new  curate  and  his 
wife,  who  had  the  honour  of  being  her  guests.  I 
was  introduced  to  these  worthy  people,  as  her 
dear  l  Miss  Courtney,'. who  had  the  goodness  to 
supply  to  her  little  girls,  *  her  care  and  tender- 
ness,' during  her  excursion  to  Lyme?  where  she 
was" going  to  bathe;  and  '  with  such  a  substitute 
she  could  frame  no  excuse  for  refusing  this  atten- 
tion to  her  health.'  I  was  silent,  till  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Wilson  with  frankness  and  politeness,  offered  me 
every  amusement  in  their  power,  during  the  ab- 
sence of  my  friend  :  they  finished,  by  observing, 
that  the  young  ladies  might  not  be  displeased  at- 
finding  society  of  their  own  age  to  welcome  them. 

Mrs.   Brown's  departure  was  a  matter  of  no 
regret  to  me.     I  was  mistress  of  my  time  ;  my 


w 


242  NARRATIVE. 

pupils,  who  began  ,to  be  attached  to  me,  were  not 
indocile,  and  the  parsonage  became  our  daily  re- 
sort. This  was  a  very  handsome  house,  which 
fflfrector  included,  in  default  of  another,  in  the 
salary  he  annexed  to  doing  duty  in  two  parishes, 
with  the  condition  of  keeping  in  good  order  a 
large  and  not  inelegant  garden. 

Vw  Our  intimacy  produced  ease  and  confidence, 
mid  I  soon  discovered  that  their  income  required 
the  economy  which  was  so  wisely  and  unremit- 
tingly attended  to.  Mrs.  Wilson  made  all  her 
children's  clothes,  and  her  industry  quickened 
mine.  I  assisted  her  in  her  needle-work,  and  in 
return  she  tawght  me  the  most  necessary  use  of 
the  needle.  Our  united  labours  had  been  profit- 
able to  the  girls,  who  exhibited,  at  chureli,  nexu 
frocks  made  of  half-worn  materials,  and  new  bon- 
nets which  had  .passed  under  a  summer's  sun.  It 
may  be  that  my  taste  had  given  an  air  of  smart- 
ness to  these  articles  of  dress,  which  Mrs.  Wil- 
son, remote-  as  she  was  from  fashion,  would  not 
have  so  well  succeeded  in.  It  so  happened,  how- 
ever, that  Mrs.  Brown,  on  her  return  home,  dis- 
covered this  talent  in  me  ;  and  she  profited  so  as- 
siduously from  it,  that  ihad  scarcely  time  to  eat 
or  to  sleep.  Mrs.  Ward  began  at  length  to  be 
impatient  for  my  return  :  several  weeks  had  elaps- 
ed since  the  school  commenced,  '  and  she  longed 
to  embrace  her  dear  child.'  I  expressed  as  much 
of  this  as  I  had  courage  to  do  to  Mrs.  Brown, 
who   coldly  replied,  'she  believed,  her  husband 

had  no  intention  that  I  should  return  to  S 

You  are  now  old  enough,'  added  she,  '  to  be  use- 
ful to  others.  You  must  not  expect  to  pass  your 
life  in  a  school.'  The  following,  week  fully  ex- 
plained Mr.  Brown's  views  relative  to  me.  Pie 
informed  me  '  that  he  and  his  family  were 'on  the 


NARRATIVE. 

1 

iat  of  sailing  for  Jaraajctf;  where  be  intended 
in  future  to  reside,-  and  that,  with  Mrs.  Brown's 
consent,  he  meant  to  take  me  with  them,  asgo- 

rness  to  his  girls.'  My  hear:  sunk  within^ie 
at  this  proposal.  He  perceived,  my  emotion,  and 
talked  of  my  getting  a  rich  husband,  and  recover- 

•  something   from  the  plantation,  w  which,'*  ad- 

■  I  'ne,  fc  is  now  only  waste  ground.'  1  hurst  into 
tears c  Well,  well,'  cried  he  :  L  you  will  consi- 
der of  my  offer,  and  I  am  certain  you  will  see  all 
the  kindness  of  it.'  I  wrote  instantly  to  Mrs. 
Ward,  and  then  consulted  my  Oracle,  Mr.  Wil- 
son. To  my  inexpressible  comfort,  I  was  warm- 
ly counselled  to  refuse  with  steadiness  the  propo- 
sed   plan  ;    and    Mrs.    Ward    charged    me,   on 

■  duty  of  a  child,  to  return  to  her,  and  leave 
every  care  behind  me. 

u  I  lost  no  time  in  signifying  ray  resolution  to 
Mrs.  Brown,  who  received  my  refusal  with  much 

iger.  Her  husband,  not  dissatisfied  with  the 
arguments  I  used,  although  much  so  with  my  re- 
jection of  his  offer,  said  with  an  air  which  indi- 
cated more  of  concern  than  resentment,  c  if  this 
be  your  determination,  I  must  yield*  I  have  no 
legal  authority  to  compel  ycu  to  go.  I  must  how- 
ever place  before  you  your  resources  in  a  world 
which  you  are  so  foolish  as  to  encounter  unpro- 
tected. Your  father  remitted  with  yon  a  thou- 
sand pounds,  in  order  to  answer  the  expenses  of 
your  education  ;  and  at  the  same  time  signified 
"his  orders  that  it  should  be  placed  in*  the  hands  of 
Mr.  D. — —  the  banker  for  your  use.  This  was 
done.     On  hearing    of  the  melancholy   disaster 

which,  so  soon  followed,  Mr.  D proposed  buy- 

mg  stock  in  your  name    with  the   residue  of  the 

sum  in  his  hands.     This  likewise  has  been  done. 

has  all  the    necessary   documents,    and     he 


244  NARRATIVE. 

i 

will  remit  you  the  interest  of  seven  hundred 
pounds.  Your  first  establishment  at  school  be- 
ing fortunately  defrayed  by  money  in  my  hands', 
notntng  of  that  in  Mr.  B ?s  was  expended  be- 
yond the  charges  occasioned  by  your  illness,  and 
your  subsequent  demands. '  1  thanked  him  with 
Teal  gratitude,  for  intelligence  so  welcome  and 
unexpected.  My  friends  were  not  less  surprised 
than  myself  at  this  account  of  my   wealth.    Mr. 

JD ,s  letter  on  the  subject  was.satisfactory,  and 

contained  the  most  polite  and  friendly  assurances 
of  attention  to  my  little  fortune. 

"  Mrs.  Ward  received  me  with  pleasure  which 
she  took  no  pains  to  conceal.  4  I  know  not,'  said 
she,  *  how  it  happens,  but  I  feel,  my  dear  Marys 
as  if  you  had  escaped  a  danger.  I  do  not  like 
this  Mr.  Brown  :  1,  bless  God!  you  have  done 
with  him  and  his  silly  wife.  I  suspect  that  nei- 
ther the  one  nor  the  other  possesses  a  grain  of 
generosity.  When  Mr.  Brown  called  on  me  to 
know  the  terms  of  my  school,  he  informed  me  of 
the  dreadful  event  which  had  clouded  your  pros- 
pects in  life.  He  mentioned  without  any  refer- 
ence to  rhe  little  provision  which  now  appears, 
your  forlorn  situation,  objected  to  thirty  pounds  a 
year,  and  proposed  you  as  a  half  boarder.  '  Did 
you  know,  sir,  asked  I,  c  the  unfortunate  father 
of  this  young  lady  ?' — '  Oh,  yes,'  replied  he  :  '  we 
were  many  years  intimate  when  young  men.  Poor 
Courtney  did  not  forget  me :  his  consignments 
were  very  considerable  indeed  !  I  have  lost  a 
good  correspondent  by  his  death.'  c  Has  the  poor 
young  lady  no  relations  in  this  country  ?'  asked  I. 
4  No,'  answered  he,  4  she  had  an  uncle  ;  but  he 
settled  at  Hamburg,  and  is  I  believe  dead;  for  I 
have  not  heard  of  him  for  several  years :  and  as 
to  her  mother,  she  was  an  orphan,  and  Courtney 


NARRATIVE..  245 

married  her  for  love.  He  had  strange  notions, 
Mrs.  Ward!:  but  a  man  v/ho  is  rich  may  do  anv 
thing;  but  he  did  not  live  to  see  difficulties.  Poor 
fellow  !  he  was  as  thoughtless  and  generous  as  a 
prince.'  4  I  heard  this  man  with  indignation,"' 
continued  Mrs.  Ward,  c  and  finally  desired  he 
would  send  you  to  me  on  any  terms,  on  condition 
thc\-  should  be  secret  ones,' and  that  I  should  be  at 
liberty  to  act,  relatively  to  your  situation  with  my 
pupils,  as  I  judged  proper.  He  eagerlv  closed 
with  this  offer,  and  proposed  -twenty  pounds  a 
year  for  your  board  and  dress.'  I  attempted  to 
speak.  *  Stop,'  cried  she,  4  I  have. not  finished  : 
I  should  not  have  been  thus  explicit  without 
design.  I  am  not  so  disinterested  as  your  now- 
palpitating  heart  conceives,  though  J  do  not  deny 
the  motives  of  my  first  interference  in  your  fa- 
vour; for  the  Being,  whom  it  is  my  duty*and 
my  glory  to  imitate,  will  not,  I  trust,  reject  them. 
I  saw  you  ;  and,  in  a  very  short  time,  I  discover- 
ed that  I  had  made  an  excellent  bargain,  which, 
by  the  way  oftener  happens,  in  the  traffic  of  bene- 
volence, than  some  very  prudent  people  think  pos- 
sible. I  calculated  by  Mr.  Brown's  arithmetical 
tables,  and  found  that  I  gained  by  you  ;  for  vour 
place  at  my  table  did  no:  cost  me  a  petihy,"*aticl 
your  abundant  wardrobe  has  presented  nearly" 
every  want  of  a  supply.  Your  needlework 
answered  to  every  trifling  contingency;  and  your 
twenty  pounds  have  annually  paid  your  diffei  n1 
masters.  Thus  balanced,  you  perceive  that  I  have 
pocketed  all  your  dutiful  and  affectionate  services, 
besides  the  credit  of  being  generous,  with  a  heart 
that  has  not  yet  learned  to  limit  its'  grateful  effu- 
sions.' She  smiled  benignantly  at  the  tears  which 
fell  from  my  eyes.  c  But  now,  my  dear  Mary,' 
continued  she,  *  come  and  forward  my  own  sel- 
w  2 


246  NARRATIVE. 

fish  purposes;  for,  believe  me,  I  have  not  for- 
gotten them.  Miss  Carrington  is  going  to  be 
married.  ,  Will  you  supply  her  place  on  the  same 
terms  of  twenty  pounds  a  year,  and  make  me 
happy  ?  I  grasped  her  hand.  '  Your  situation, 
my  child,  will  not  be  splendid,'  resumed  she  : 
!  but  it  will  be  safe;  and  that  Providence  which 
now  opens  to  you  an  asylum  for  your  youth  and 
^experience,  will  continue  to  protect  you  by  its 
power,  whilst  with  virtue,  humility,  and  persever- 
mg  industry,  you  merit  its  never-failing  interpo- 
sition. l  Oh  !  cried  I,  falling  on  my  knees,  c  let 
me  here  blessmid  praise  its  merciful,  its  gracious, 
,ts  unmerited  favour  f 

"  The  excellent  Mrs.  Ward  wept  with  tender 
sympathy;  and  as  I  trust,  had>  in  that  moment, 
3  foretaste  of  the  recompense  which  will,  in  ano- 
\her*and  better  life,  crown  her  benevolence.  I 
was  shortly  after  installed  in  my  ^office  ;  in  which 
jf  I  did  not  succeed,  at  least  I  exerted  all  the  pow- 
ers of  my  mind,  with  the  unabating  wish  of  so 
doing.  In  the  peaceable  exercise  of  my  duty, 
in  the  confidence  and  approbation  of  my  benefac- 
tress, I  remained  till  I  had  reached  my  twenty- 
second  year.  Mrs.  Ward  was  suddenly  seized 
with  an  apoplectic  fit.  I  was  with  her  at  the 
moment,  and  thought  I  saw  her  expire,  and  with 
her  my  own  happiness.  Fortunately,  the  means 
promptly  applied  were  efficacious  :  She  gradually 
recovered  her  mental  faculties,  and  some  degree 
of  bodily  strength;  but  one  side  was  rendered  ir- 
recoverably useless.  Her  good  and  affectionate 
daughter,  who  had  married  and  settled  in  Devon- 
shire, and  had,  on  the  first  notice  of  her  mother's 
danger,  attended  her  in  person,  used  such  argu- 
ments as  induced  Mrs.  Ward  to  give  up  her 
•  school.     |Ier  extreme  feebleness   enforced  this 


NARRATIVE, 

measure,  and  hastened  its  execution.  I  was  left 
by  my  friend  as  a  precious  deposit  with  Mrs. 
Wilson,  and  with  a  special  charge  to  leave 'my  fu- 
ture destination  entirely  to  her  care,  and  on  no  ac- 
count to  quit  my  new  asylum  without  her  concur- 
rence. 

i(  With  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilson  I  had  only  those 
regrets  which  they  could  not  remove,  but  which 
the  improving  state  of  my  mother,  for  so  I  am 
permitted  to  call  Mrs.  Ward,  greatly  alleviated, 
Mr,  Wilson  was  assiduously  engaged  in  teaching 
his  sons  latin.  My  leisure  induced  a  desire  of 
learning  it,  and  1  became  his  pupil  also.  In  my 
progress  I  found  it  of  so  much  advantage  to  my 
knowledge  of  general  grammar,  and  to  those  lan- 
guages in  which  I  had  already  made  some  profi- 
ciency, that  I  went  further  into  it  than  I  had  at 
first  thought  of  doing.  My  instructor  was  able, 
and  I  was  diligent ;  and  that  which  at  the  com- 
mencement was  a  dry  task,  became  an  inexhaust- 
able  source  of  rational  pleasure. 

u  Mrs.  Ward,  after  two  years'  patience,  saw 
her  views  for  me  successful.  She  placed  me 
with  a  lady  who  had  been  the  friend  of  her  youth 
and  whose  attachment  had  resisted  all  the  influ- 
ence of  time  anuV  circumstances.  In  an  elevated 
situation,  her  heart  had  constantly  acknowledged 
the  less  prosperous  Mrs.  Ward  ;  and  she  resign- 
ed to.  her  judgment  the  first  objects  of  her  cares» 
She  had  two  daughters  ;  and  to  these  young  la- 
dies I  became  governess,  with  an  interest  in  the 
family  that  no  merit  of  which  I  can  with  justice 
boast  could  have  procured  me.  In  this  eligible 
situation  I  have  remained  till  within  these  few 
weeks.  The  mother  of  my  pupils  is  now  at  Nice; 
*her  health  requiring  the  air  of  a  milder  sky  than 
>;ours.     I  was  over-ruled  in  mv  intention  of  ac». 


£48  NARRATIVE 

companying  the  family,  by  Mrs.  Ward,  who  had, 
'jointly  with  her  friend,  prepared  the  mind  of  Mrs- 
.Needharn  for  an  adoption  of  their  kindness  and 
confidence  m  respect  to  me.  Thave  passed  the 
holydays  with  her;  and  without  detracting-  from 
that  sentiment  of  gratitude  which  I  owe.  to  her 
hospitality  and  flattering  good  will,  I  think  I 
know  the  motive  which  has  principally  governed 
her  conduct,  and  influenced  my  friend's  advice 
that  I  should  remain  in  England.  Yes  my  dear 
Miss  Wentvvorth  I  do  know  it,  and  it  is  time  that 
you  also  should  know  it,  I'oiir  interest,  your  hap- 
piness, suggested  the  measure,  and  urged  the 
means.  Mrs.  Needham  lost  no  time  in  placing 
before  me  her  difficulties  in  regard  to  you  :  with 
those  impediments  which  had  frustrated  every 
benevolent  purpose  of  your  improvement. 

"  Miss  Wentworth,"  said  she  to  me,  f  pos- 
sesses all  those  powers  of  understanding,  all 
those  qualities  of  mind,  which  the  most 
enlightened  parent  would  covet  for  a  child. 
But  indolence,  depress  the  one,  and  threat- 
en to  lay  waste  and  corrupt  the  other.  No  inte- 
rest impels  me  to  charge  myself  with  a  pupil, 
from  whom  I  can  expect  nothing  but  vexation  and 
disgrace,  unless  a  speedy  reformation  can  be  ef- 
fected :  but  I  know  the  extreme  and  mistaken 
fondness  of  "her  guardians,  %ad  I  dread  her  fal- 
ling into  the  hands  of  thosefor  whose  integrity  I 
cannot  be  so  responsible  as  for  my  own.  This 
child  is  no  common  subject  ;  nature  has  destined 
her  to'act a  part  both  honourable  and  useful,  and 
her  deviations  will  be  attended  with  evils  propor- 
tioned to  those  faculties  which  she  neglects  or 
abuses.  I  have  sometimes  been  disposed  to  con- 
sider this  singular  aversion  to  every  species  of  ac- 


NARRATIVE.  2-i9 

tivity,  as  arising,  in  part,  from  the  climate  in 
which  she  was  born,  and  in  which  she  has  lived 
till  within  these  two  years  :  but  this  opinion  yields 
before  the  conviction  which  daily  presses  upon 
me  the  true  cause  that  has  so  powerfully  operated 
upon  her  constitution  both  mental  and  corporeal  ; 
and  from  which  all  the  evils  which  threaten  her 
mav  be  with  certainty  deduced.  These  are,  the 
early  habits  of  her  infancy,  and  the  unrestrained 
indulgence  which  since  that  period  has  not  only 
permitted  but  encouraged  them.  Her  friends. 
seem  to  have  sought  for  no  other  gratification  thari' 
that  of  seeing  her  grow  up  to  maturity  in  supine 
negligence  and  unthinking  ease.  Sheltered  by 
the  care  of  others,  surrounded  by  wealth  and  un- 
limited abundance,  they  have  appeared  to  regard 
her  as  one  exempted  from  the  duties  of  a  rational 
and  the  usefulness  of  a  social  being  ;  and  solici- 
tous not  only  to  supply  her  wants,  but  even  to 
prevent  her  wishes,  they  think  they  perform  that 
duty  which  is  at  once  the  object  of  their  anxious 
care  and  benevolent  purpose.  But  my  dear  Miss 
Courtney,  they  do  not  understand  this  young 
creature,  nor  calculate  the  dangers  they  are  pre- 
pajjbg  for  her.  I,  have  studied  her  with  all  the 
attention  and  exne'i 


and  experience  I  possess.  I  am  certain 
that  there  may  yet  be  found  a  remedy  for  these 
evils.  Nature  by  no  means  concurs  with  this  ap- 
parent slothfulness  ;  nothing  can  be  more  remote 
from  her  natural  character  ;  for  there  all  is  active 
and  ardent.  She  is  endowed  with  a  vigorous 
mind,  a  high  spirit,  and  a  quick  sensibility;  she 
is  generous  even  to  profusion  ;  steady  in  her  at- 
tachments, and  formed  to  communicate  happi- 
ness :  this  principle  is  so  innate  in  her,  that  it  ha;^ 
resisted  even  the  prevailing  influence  of  laziness 
in  a  variety  of  instances,  and  I  have  sec 


NARRATIVE. 

tive  for   another,  when  nothing  personal    v 
have  tempted  her  to  walk  across  the  room.       She 
would  indignantly  and  obstinately  meet  severity  ; 
nor  does  it  enter  into  my  code    of  laws  ;  neither 
will  my  duty  permit  me  to  attend    exclusively  to 
ihis  interesting,  unfortunate  child.     You  app< 
lo  me  to  be  a  proper  agent  to  supply  this  inability7 
on  my  part  5    and   my   opinion  has    been  ai 
sanctioned,  not  only  by   my   friend  Mrs.  Warch, 
but  by  the  testimony  of  ycur  virtue  and   talents, 

which  lady  N left  behind  her.      I  have  used 

every  argument  to  induce  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Delmy 
'to  engage  you  as  a  private  governess'  to  Miss 
V/entworth.  They  are  too  wise  arid  too  p;ood  to 
oppose  truth,  and  they  ingenuously  acknowledged 
the  necessity  of  changing  their  plans  in  respect  to 
this  favourite  child  ;  but  Mrs-  Delmy  with  I 
confessed  that  it  could  never  be  effected  under 
her  roof.  They  then  urged  me  to  the  adoption 
of  the  course  I  now  propose  for  vour  acceptance,, 
promising  that  your  conditions  will  never  reach 
their  generosity.  Miss  Wentworth  at  her  return  is 
to  be  a  parlour-boarder,  and  entirely  under  your 
direction  and  instructions.  I  have  already  secu- 
red another  lady  to  supply  .M.iss  Paget's  j 
and  now  only  wait  your  decision Shall  1  con- 
fess to  you,  my  dear  young  lady,  that  I  was  by  no 
means  flattered  by  a  distinction  to  whichj&ecunia- 
ry  advantage  and  comparative  ease  were  annex- 
ed ?  It  is  however  true.  I  was  even  troubled 
and  dismayed  by  the  apprehension  that  the  duty 
was  beyond  my  abilities.  Mrs.  Needham  per- 
suaded me.- :and  my  mother  seconded  her.  You 
appeared,  and  I  yielded. 

"  Every  measure  since  pursued  has  been  at 
discretion  ;  and  it  now  depends  on  you   to    avail 
yourself  of  the    wishes    and  purposes 


NARRATIVE.  2o  l 

friends.  You  have  talents,  if  you  choose  to  cul-. 
tivate  them  ;  you  have  powers  and  endowments 
of  mind,  if  it  he  your  pleasure  to  employ  them  : 
you  have  health  and  strength,  spirits  and  youth. 
What  inestimable  treasures  !— rVVill  you  abuse 
them?  You  have*  instruction,  precept,  example, 
and  patient  kindness.  Will  you  reject  them  ^ 
Choose,  and  speedily,  whether  "these  invaluable 
gifts,  are  to  be  honourably'  cultivated  and 
employed  or  sunk  in  sloth  and  ignorance. 
Be  not  deceived  by  the  smiling  and  betraying 
face  of  your  prosperous  fortune  in  your  adoption 
of  the  part  you  are  called  upon  to  take.  Be  as- 
sured that  to  the-  most  elevated  condition  of  hu- 
man life  are  annexed  duties  which  demand  all 
our  active  powers  ;  and  be  assured  likewise,  thai, 
the  most  ,elevated  condition  cannot  insure  you 
from  the  wretched  state  of  an  enfeebled  mind 
and  body  ;  for  the  victim  of  sloth  is  exposed  to 
danger  from  foes  too  contemptible  to  be  feared 
by  any  who  are  sensible  of  their  own  powers,  and 

fyienas, 


of  their  impotence.  We  have  met  asfrienas,  and 
as  friend?  we  \^U1  continue — or  part ;  for  without, 
giving  up  my  claims  to  that  modesty,  which  with 


me  is  the  test  of  a  well  ordered  mind  and  a  culti- 
vated understanding,  I  will  telf  you  frankly,  that 
I  rate  my  abilities,  and  value  my  time,  too  high- 
ly, to  lavish  either  one  or  the  other  on  incorrigi- 
ble idleness,  or  stubborn  indocility.  With  a 
Word,  you  will  find  your  piano-forte  in  my  apart- 
ment, which  is  destined  for  our.  sole  use:  with  a 
word,  your  different  masters  will  return  to  a  duty 
which  they  will  engage  in  with  pleasure,  whilst 
they  find  their  time  something  better  than  a  mere 
exchange  for  your  money.  I  will  give  you  my 
word,  that  in  one  years  application  you  may  yet 
)ur  or  five  which  you  have  suffered  to  es- 


25'4  NARRATIVE* 

cape  you.  Read  this  letter  with  attention  :  it  will 
teach  you  to  estimate  your  present  condition  pro- 
perly. It  will  shew  you  how' insecure,  how  un- 
stable your  present  resources  are.  It  will  point 
out  to  you  those  on  which  you  may  rely  with  more 
permanent  hope  and  better  grounded  expectation  ; 
y.but  it  will  fail  altogether  m  its  purpose.,  if  it  do 
not  open  your  heart  to  the  important  and  just  re- 
proof'directed  to  the  unprofitable  servant  who. '■  hid 
his  lord's  money  in  the  earth.' 

a  I  remain,  &c.  &c. 

"  MARY  COURTNEY." 

It  only  remains  for  me  to  say,  that  this  affec- 
tionate appeal,  aided  by  the  conduct  of  this  ex- 
emplary woman  acted  upon  my  mind  with  an  in- 
fluence which  might  almost  be  called  magical. 
To  resemble  Miss  Courtney,  to  do  what  JYIiss 
Courtney  did,  was  the  governing  principle  of  eve- 
ry part  of  my  conduct;  and  always  disposed  to 
extremes,  I  carried  my  assiduity  to  a  pitch  that 
nothing  less  than  her  friendship  would  have  tole- 
rated. Victorious  over  myself,^!  now  began  to 
taste  the  recompence  of  my  application.  My 
drawings  decorated  Mrs.  X>elmy's  dressing- 
room  ;  I  was  called  out  with  fond  delight  to  sing 
and  play  to  her  friends  ;  and  Mr.  .  Delmy  cm 
tiptoe,  his  venerable  face  beaming  with  pride  and 
pleasure,  would  listen  to  my  idle  prattle  ht 
French,  with  a  native  of  that  country  who  was 
intimate  in  the  family.  No  incitements  were  like 
these  precious  ones  :  my  father's  approbation  ac- 
companied them  :  he  now  began  to  look  ft 
to  his  re-union  with  a  child,  who  he  had  been 
taught  to  hope  would  satisfy  his  fondest  wishes.. 


AN 

ABSTRACT 

OF 

HEATHEN    MYTHOLOGY. 


Jupiter,  the  supreme  deity  of  the  heathen  world. 

Juno,  wife  of  Jupiter,  and  queen  of  heaven. 

Apollo,  god  of  music,  poetry,  and  the  sciences. 

Minerva,  or  Pallas,  daughter  of  Jupiter,  and  god- 
dess of  wisdom* 

Mercury,  the  god  of  eloquence,  and  messenger  of 
the  gods.  ^ 

iEolus,  god  of  the  winds. 

Bacchus,  god  of  wine. 

Mars,  god  of  war. 

Diana,  goddess  of  hunting,  chastity  and  manage. 

Esculapius,  god  of  physic. 

Venus,  goddess  of  beauty,  love,  and  marriage. 

Aurora,  goddess  of  the  morning. 

Cupid,  son  of  Venus,  and  god  of  love. 

Saturn,  god  of  time. 

Astraea,  goddess  of  justice, 

Autumnus,  god  of  fruits. 

Ate,  goddess  of  revenge. 

Bapta,  goddess  of  shame. 

Bellona,  goddess  of  war,  and  sister  to  Mars. 

Boreas,  god  of  the  north  wind. 

Agenoria,  goddess  of  industry. 

Angerona,  goddess  'of  silence. 

Ceres,  goddess  of  agriculture. 

Collina,  goddess  of  hills. 

Cornus,  god-of  laughter  and  mirth, 
x 


254  HEATHEN    MYTHOLOGY. 

Concordia,  goddess  of  peace. 

Cybele,  wife  of  the  god  Saturn,  and  mother  of  the 

earth. 
Discordia,  the  goddess  of  contention. 
Eurymone,  an    infernal    deity  who   gnawed   the 
dead  to  the  bones,  and  was  always  grinding 
her  teeth. 
Fama,  or  Fame,  the  goddess  of  report. 
Flora,  the  goddess  of  flowers. 
Fortune,  the  goddess   of  happiness  and  misery  ; 

said  to  be  blind. 
Harpocrates,  the  god  of  silence. 
Hebe,  goddess  ol  youth. 
Historia,  goddess  of  history. 
Hygeia,  goddess  of  health. 
Hymen,  god  of  marriage. 

Janus,  god  of  the  year  ;  he   was  said  to  be  en- 
dowed with  the  lRiowledge  of  the   past  and 
the  future. 
Lares,  household  gods,  among  the  Romans  ;  they 

were  also  called  Penates. 
Mnemosyne,  goddess  of  memory. 
Momus,  god  of  raillery. 
Mors,  goddess  of  death. 
Nox,  the  most  ancient  of  all  the  deities. 
Pan,  the  god  of  shepherds. 
Pitho,  goddess  of  eTRffctence. 
Pluto,  god  of  hell. 

Proserpine,   wife  to  Pluto,  and  queen  of  the  in- 
fernal regions. 
Plutus,  god  of  riches. 
Pomona,  goddess  of  fruits  and  autumn. 
Proteus,  a  sea-god,  said   to    have    the  power  of 
changing  himself  into  any  shape  he  pleased. 
Psyche,  goddess  of  pleasure. 
Sylvanus,  god  of  the  woods. 
Terminus;  god  of  boundaries.  -* 


HEATHEN    MYTHOLOGY.  255 

Neptune,  god  of  the  sea. 

Vacuna,  goddess  of  idle  persons, 

Vertumniis,  god  of  the  spring. 

Vesta,  goddess  of  fire. 

Morpheus,  god  of  dreams. 

Soranus,  god  of  sleep. 

Vulcan,  god  of  subterraneous  fires,  and  husband 
of  .Venus,  famed  for  his  deformity. 

Fates,  three  sisters,  entrusted  with  the  lives  of 
mortals;  their  names  were  Clotho,  Lachesis, 
and  Atropos. 

Furies,  three  sisters,  armed  with  snakes,  and 
lighted  torches ;  their  names  were  Alecfo, 
Megaera,  and  Tisiphone. 

Graces,  three  sisters,  daughters  of  Jupiter,  and 
attendants  upon  Venus  and  the  Muses  ;  their 
names  were  Aglaia,  Thalia,  and  Euphrosyne. 

Gorgons,  three  hideous  women,  who  had  but  one 

I  eye  in  the  middle  of  their  foreheads ;  their 

names  were  Euryale,  Medusa,  and  Stheno. 

Muses,  the  nine  daughters  of  Jupiter,  and  the 
goddess  of  memory;  they  presided  over  the 
sciences,  and  were  called  Calliope,  Clio, 
Erato,  Euterpe,  Melpomene,  Pqlyhymnia, 
Terpsichore,  Thalia,  and  Urania.  Calliope, 
was"  the  muse  of  eloquence,  and  heroic  poe- 
try ;  Clio,  of  history ;  Erato*  of  amorous 
poetry;  Euterpe  of  music;  Melpomene,  of 
tradegy ;  Polyhymnia,"  of  rhetoric ;  Terp- 
sichore, of  dancing  ;  Thalia,  of  comedy,  and 
lyric  poetry  ;  and  Urania,  of  astronomy. 
Harpies,  three  monsters,  with  the  faces  of  women, 
the  bodies  of  vultures,  and  hands  armed 
with  claws  :  their  names  were  Aelo,  Ocypete, 
and  Gelceno. 
Hesperides,  three  sisters,  who  kept  golden  apples 
in  a  garden,  guarded  by  a  dragon  ;  Hercules 
slew  the  dragon,  and  carried  off  the  apples. 


2o6  HEATHEN    MYTHOLOGY. 

Acco,  an  old  woman,  remarkable  for  talking  to 

herself  at  the  glass,  and  refusing   what   she 

most  wished  for. 
Acheron,  a  river  in  hell. 
Achilles,  a  Grecian,    who  signalized  himself  at 

the  siege  of  Troy  :  and  is  said  to  have  been 

dipped   by   his   mother    in    the    river  Styx, 

which   rendered   him   invulnerable  m  every 

part,  except  his  right  heel,  by  which  she  held 

him. 
Action,  a  famous  hunter,  changed  by  Diana  into 

a  stag,  for  disturbing  her  while  bathing. 
Adonis,  a  youth  said  to   be   extremely  beautiful, 

and  beloved  by  Venus. 
iEacus,  one  of  the  judges  of  hell. 
a£gis,  the  shield  of  Minerva,  formerly  one  of  the 

Gorgons,  whom  Pallas  killed,  and  made  that 

use  of  her  skin. 
Ambrosia,  the  food  of  gods.  'K 

iEgeria,  a  beautiful  nymph,  worshipped,  by  the 

ftomans. 
Arachne,  a  woman  turned  into  a  spider,  for  con- 

tending  with  Minerva  at  spinning. 
Argus,  a  man  said  to  have  had  an  hundred  eyes, 

changed  by  Juno  into  a  peacock. 
Atalanta,  a  woman  remarkable  for  her  swift  run- 
ning. 
Atlas,  the  son  of  Jupiter,  said  to  have  supported 

the  heavens,   on  his  shoulders ;  afterwards 

turned  into  a  mountain. 
Avernus,  a  lake  on  the  borders  of  hell. 
JBriareus,    a  giant,  said  to  have  had  fifty  heads, 

and  one  hundred  hands. 
Caduceus,  the  rod   which   Mercury  carried,  and 

the  emblem  of  peace. 
Castalides,  a  en  me  given  to  the  Muses. 


HEATHEN    MYTHOLOGY.  257 

■ 

Centaurs,  creatures  half  men,  half  horses,  said  to 
have  inhabited  Thee-: 

Castor  and  Pollux,  two  brother?,  who  had  immor- 
tality conferred  upon  them  alternately,  by 
Jupiter;  they  make  that  constellation  in  the 
heavens  called  Gemini. 

Cerberus,  a  dog  with  three  heads,  which  kept  the 
gates  of  hell. 

Charon,  the  ferry-man  of  hell. 

Chanties,  a  name  for  the  Graces. 

Chiron,  a  centaur,  who  taught  Esculapius  physic  ; 
Hercules,  astronomy ;  and  was  afterwards 
made  the  constellation  Sagittarius. 

Circe,  a  famous  enchantress. 

Cocytus,  a  river  in  hell,  flowing  from  the  river 
Styx. 

Cyclops,  the  workmen  of  Vulcan,  who  had  only 
one  eye  in  the  middle  of  their  foreheads. 

Delos,  the  island  where  Apollo  was  born,  and  had 
a  celebrated  oracle. 

Dryades,  nymphs  of  the  woods. 

Daphne,  a  beautiful  woman,  changed  into  a  lau- 
rel tree  as  she  fled  from  Apoilo. 

Elysium,  the  paradise  of  the  heathens. 

Erebus,  a  river  in  hell,  famed  for  its  blackness. 

Ganymede,  a  beautiful  boy,  made  cup-be%rer  to 
Jupiter.  | 

Genii,  guardian  angels;  there  were  good  and 
evil. 

Gordius,  a  king  of  Phrygia,  who  was  famed  for 
fastening  a  knot  of  cords,  on  which  the  em- 
pile  of  Asia  depended,  in  so  intricate  a  man- 
lier, that  Alexander  the  Great,  not  being  able 
to  untie  it,  cut  if  asunder. 

Gyges,  a  shepherd,  who   possessed  a  ring  which 
rendered  him  invisible   when   he  turned  the 
stone  towards  his  bod  v. 
x2    ' 


258  HEATHEK  MYTHOLOGY. 

Hamadryades,  nymphs^said  to  have  lived  in  oak 
trees. 

Hermes,  a  name  for  Mercury. 

Hecate,  Diana^s  name  in  hell. 

Helicon,  a  famous  mountain  in  Bceotia,  sacred  to 
Apollo  and  the  Muses. 

Hercules,  the  son  of  Jupiter,  famed  for  his  great 
strength,  and  numerous  exploits. 

Hesperus,  or  Vesper,  the  poetical  name  for  the 
evening  star. 

Hydra,  a  serpent  with  seven  heads,  kilied  by  Her- 
cules. 

Ida,  a  famous  mountain  near  Troy. 

Ixion,  a  man  who  killed  his  own  sister,  and  was 
♦  fastened  in  hell  to  a  wheel  perpetually  turn- 
ing round. 

Iris,  the  messenger  of  Juno,  changed  by  her  into 
the  rainbow. 

Lethe,  a  river  in  hell,  whose  waters  had  the  pow- 
er of  causing  forgetfulness. 

Lucifer,  the  poetical  name  for   the  morning  star. 

Latona,  a  nymph  loved  by  Jupiter;  she  was  the 
mother  of  Apollo  and  Diana. 

Medea,  a  famous  sorceress. 

Midas%a  king  of  Phrygia,  who  had  the  power 
given  him  by  Bacchus,  of  turning  whatever 
he  touched  into  gold. 

Minos,  one  of  the  judges  of  hell,  famed  for  his 
justice;  he  was  king  of  Crete. 

Nereides,  sea  nymphs  ;  they  were  fifty  of  them. 

N-iiadesj. nymphs  of  rivers  and  fountains. 

Niobe,  a  woman  said  to  have  wept  herself  into  a 
statue,  for  the  loss  of  her  fourteen  children. 

Nectar,  the  beverage  of  the  gods. 

Olympus,  a  famous  mountain  in  Thessaly,  the  re- 
sort of  the  gods. 

Orpheus,  the  son  of  Jupiter  and   Calliope ;  his 


heathen  Mythology. 

musical  powers  were  so  great,  that  lie  is  said 
to  have  char  ned  rocks,  trees,  and  stbncs,  by 
the  sound  of  his  lyre. 

Pandora,  a  woman  made  by  Vulcan,  endowed 
with  gifts  by  all  the  gods  and  goddesses  ishe 
had  a  box  given  her  containing  all  kinds  of 
evils,  with  hope  at  the  bottom, 

Pegasus,  a  winged  horse,  belonging  to  Apollo  and 
the  Muses. 

Phaeton,  the  son  of  Apollo,  who  asked  the  gui- 
dance of  his  father's  chariot,  as  proof  of  his 
divine  descent,  but  managed  it  so  ill  that  he 
set  the  world  on  lire. 

Phlegethon,  a  boiling  river  in  hell. 

Prometheus,  a  man  who,  assisted  by  Minerva,. 
stole  fire  from  heaven,  with  which  he  is  said 
to  have  animated  a  figure  formed  of  clay  t 
Jupiter,  as  a  punishment  for  his  audacity  ,A 
condemned  him  to  be  chained  to  Mount 
Caucasus,  with  a  vulture  perpetually  gnaw- 
ing his  iiver, 

Pigmies,- a  people  only  a  span  high,  born  in  Lybia. 

Python,  a  serpent  which  Apollo  killed ;  and,  in 
memory  of  it,  instituted  Pythian  games. 

Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  two  fond  lovers,  who  killed' 
themselves  with  the  same  sword,  and  turned 
the  berries  of  the  mulberry-tree,  under  which 
they  died,  from  white  to  brown. 

Pindus,  a  mountain  in  Thessaly,  sacred  to  the 
Muses. 

Ph demon  and  Baucis,  a  .poor  old  man  and  woman, 
/      who  entertained  Jupiter  and  Mercury  in  their 
travels  through  Phrygia. 

£olyphemus,  the  son  of  Neptune,  a  cruel  monster, 
whom  Ulysses  destroyed. 

Radamanthus,  one  of  the  judges  of  hell. 

Saturnalia,  feasts  sacred  to  Saturn. 


260  HEATHEN   MYTHOLOGY. 


fc 


Satyrs,  priests  of  Bacchus,  half  men,  half  goats. 

Stentor,*a  precian,  whose,  voice  was  as  strong  and 
"loud  as  that  of  fifty  men  together. 

Syrens,  sea  monsters,  who  charmed  people  with 
the  sweetness  of  their  music,  and  then  de- 
voured them. 

Sisyphus,  a  man  doomed  to  .'roll  a  large  stone,  up  -a 
mountain  in  hell,  which  continually  rolled 
back,  as  a  punishment  for  his  perfidy,  and 
numerous  robberies. 

Styx,  a  river  in  hell  by.  which  the  gods  swore; 
and  their  oaths  were  then  always  kept  sacred. 

Tempe, -a  beautiful  vale  in  Thessaly,  the  resort 
of  the  gods. 

Tartarus,  the  abode  of  the  wicked  in  hell. 

Triton,  Neptune's  son  and  his  trumpeter. 

Trbphonius,  the  son  of  Apollo,  who  gave  oracles 

-    c    in  a  gloomy  cave.   j 

Tantalus,  the  son  of  Jupiter,  who,  serving  up  the 
limbs  of  his  son  Pelops,  in  a  dish  to  try  the 
divinity  of  the  gods,  was  plunged  up  to  the 
chin  in  a  lake  of  hell,  and  doomed  to  perpe- 
tual thirst,  as  a  punishment  for  his  barbarity. 

Zephvrus,  the  poetical  name  for  the  west  wind. 


%#■ 


POETRY. 


I^CJood  poetry,  is  a  refined,  animating  and  musical 
kind  of' eloquence  ;  to  our  feelings,  itconvej  s  all  the 
soft  persuasive  powers  of  numbers  and  harmony  and 
is  a  mixture  of  painting,  music  and  eloquence.  As 
eloquence  it  speaks,  proves  and  relates.  As  music,  a 
fine  poem  is  a  harmony  to  the  soul.  As  painting,  it 
delineates  objects  and  lays  on  colours  ;  it  expresses 
every  beauty  in  nature,  and  seems  to  impress  more 
strongly  on' the  mind  than  any  other  kind  of  writ- 
ing.] 


THE  NAUTILUS  AND  THE  OYSTER  ; 


A  FABLE. 

.Addressed  to  a  sister,  by  a  gentleman  of  Baltimore* 

Who  that  has  on  the  salt  sea  been 
The  nautilus  has  never  seen 

In  gallant  sailing  trim, 
His  filmy  fore-and-aft  sail  spread, 
And  o'er  the  billows  shoot  ahead, 

■ImpelI'd  by  winds  abeam? 

The  little  bark's  air-freighted  hull. 
Keen  prow  and  bend.s  amidship,  full. 
Display  the  mermaid's  povv'rs ; 
For  paint,  the  Sylphs  their  brushes  stee 
In  rainbows  glowing  on  the  deep 
Athwart  retiring  show'rs. 

So  pretty,  and  not  vain,  would  be 

More  strange  than  strangest  things  wc  sec  ; 


!62  NAUTILUS  AND  THE  OYSTER. 


I 


Near  Ceylon's  spicy  coast 
As  one*  the  tiny  war-d'rer  steer'd 
His^ialcyon  course,  he  thus  was  heard 

To  make  his  foolish  boast. 

'*  What  tenant  of  the  sea  cr  air 
Can  with  the  nautilus  compare, 

In  colours  gay  attir'd  : 
I've  seen,  nor  visited  in  vain, 
Most  counuies  bord'ring  on  the  mam 

And  been  in  all  admir'd. 


Secure  I  brave  the  polar  gale, 
Beneath  the  line  1  trim  my  sail,  ' 

In  either  tropic  found  ; 
Where'er  a  ship  may  go  I  go, 
Nor  fear  like  her  a  treach'rous  foe--~ 

The  rock,  the  hidden  ground. 

The  distant  canvass  I  descry 

Of  commerce  hanging  in  the  sky 

That  bounds  th'  Atlantic  wave. 
I  share,  with  hostile  fleets,  who  ride 
Victorious  on  the  subject  tide, 

The  empire  ocean  gave. 

Alas  !  how  different  is  the  lot 
Of  that  poor  oyster  thus  forgot ; 

Unpitied  and  unknown  : 
Is  it*by  chance  or  adverse  fate, 
Or  cruel  Nature's  stepdame  hate 

He's  here  corwdemn'd  to  groan  I 

The  splendors  of  the  orb  of  day 
Scarce  visit  with  a  twilight  ray 

The  bed  where  low  he  lies, 
And  whence  he  never  can  remove  : 
To  gayer  scenes  forbid  to  rove, 

E'en  here  he  lives  and  dies  !' 


NAUTILUS  AND  THE  OYSTER,  26^ 

My  claims,  may  well  his  envy  raise, 
Established  on  the  genV.il  praise 

Besrow'd  where  eVr  I  ?;oSy 
He  ceas'd — when,  1<>!  amaz'd to  hear, 
This  gentle  answer  to  his  ear 

Came  buboling  from  below  ! 

u  Your  pity  spare,  mv  gaudy  friend, 
Your  eloquence  I  might  commend 

Had  truth  conviction  lent: 
I  neither  fate  nor  nature  blame, 
An  oyster's  looks  produce  no  shame, 

He  lives  upon  content. 

The  pow'r  to  go  where  one  may  choose. 
So  much  esteem'd,  I  would  refuse  : 

No  wish  have  I  to  rove. 
And  brilliant  hues  and  glossy  side 
Serve  but  to  nourish  silly  pride ; 

Yourself  this  truth  will  prove. 

How  falsely  do  they  judge,  who  take 
A  fair  exterior  when  they  make 

Their  estimate  of  good. 
Know,  friend,  X  willingly  conceal 
A  pearl  within  this  russet  shell 

Whose  form  you  think  so  rude. 

The  gem  by  monarchs  may  be  wrorn, 
'Twiil  beauty's  polish'd  brow  adorn  : 

Nor  shall  its  lustre  fade  : 
When  death  has  sunk,  with  cruel  blow, 
Thy  evanescent. brightness  low 

'Twill  glitter  undecay-d," 

My  tale,  dear  S.Hla,  feign'd  may  be  ; 
Yet  may  the  moral  found  in  thee 
Convey  instruction  sweet ; 


264  MY  MOTHER* 

Far  from  unmeaning  fashion's  throng, 
Through  life's  calm  by-paths  steal  along 
Thy  cautious,  steady  feet. 

No  wish  to  change,  contented  thou 
See'st  others  change.     Thou  seest  how 

The  gay  their  rattles  prize- — 
Their  show  and  their  fatiguing  rules, 
'Alike  the  idle  toil  of  fools 

And  folly  of  the  wise.) 

Thy  strong  and  contemplative  mind 
Has  felt  its  early  pow'rs  refin'd 

By  all  the  lore  of  truth  : 
Severely  pois'd  her  equal  scale, 
Thou  saw'si  how  little  did  avail 

The  fleeting  charms  of  youth  : 

And  giving  to  thy  God  thy  heart 
Hast  chosen  Mary's  better  part. 

In  this  shall  thou  rejoice  : 
Long  shall  thy  secret  soul  possess 
That  treasure  which  alone  can  bless — 

The  pearl  of  countless  price. 


MY  MOTHER. 


Originally  from  an  American  paper, 

WHO  fed  me  from  her  gentle  breast, 
And  hush'd  me  in  her  arms  to  rest,  ^ 
And  on  my  cheek  sweet  kisses  prest  ? 

My  mother, 

When  sleep  forsook  my  open  eye, 

Who  was  it  sung  sweet  lullaby, 

And  rock'dme  that  I  should  not  cry  ? 

My  mother. 


MY  MOTHER.  26. 


Who  sat  and  watch'd  my  infant  feead, 
When  sleeping  on  my  cradie  bed, 
And  tears  of  sweet  affection  shed  ? 

My  mother* 

When  pain  and  sickness  made  me  cry, 
Who  gaz'd  upon  my  heavy  eye, 
And  wept,  for  fear  that  1  should  die  ? 

My  mother. 

Who  drest  my  doll  in  clothes  so  gay, 
And  taught  me  pretty  how  to  play, 
And  minded  all  I  had  to  say  ? 

My  mother* 

Who  ran  to  help  me  when  I  fells 
And  would  some  pretty  story  tell, 
Or  kiss  the  place  to  make  it  well  ? 

My  motheh 

Who  taught  my  infant  lips  to  pray 
To  love  God's  holy  word  and  day, 
And  walk  in  Wisdom's  pleasant  way  ? 

My  mother^ 

And  can  I  ever  cease  to  be 
Affectionate  and  kind  to  thee, 
Who  wast  so  very  kind  tome  ? 

My  mother*' 

0  no  !'the  thought  I  cannot  bear, 
And,  if  God  please  my  life  to  spare, 

1  hope  I  shall  reward  thy  care, 

My  mother* 


266  POWER  OF  INNOCENCE. 

When  thou  art  feeble,  old,  and  grey, 
My  healthy  arm  shall  be  thy  stay. 
And  I  will  soothe  thy  pains  away, 

My  mother. 

And  when  I  see  thee  hang  thy  head, 
'Twill  be  my  turn  to  watch  thy  bed. 
p        And  tears  of  sweet  affection  shed,. 

My  mother. 

For  God,  who  lives  above  the  skies, 
Would  look  with  vengeance  in  his  eyes, 
If  I  should  ever  dare  despise, 

My  mo  there 


THE  POWER  OF  INNOCENCE. 

A   TRUE  STORY. 

WHEN  first  the  nuptial  state  we  prove, 
We  live  the  happy  life  of  love  ; 
But  when  familiar  charms  no  more 
Inspire  the  bliss  they  gave  before, 
Each  less  delighting,  less  is  lov'd, 
First  this,  then  that,  is  disapproved  ; 
Complaisance  flies,  neglect  succeeds, 
Neglect,  disdain  and  hatred  breeds. 

"Twas  thus  a  pair,  who  long  time  prov'c! 
The  joys  to  love  and  be  belov'd ; 
At' length  fell  out  for  trifling  things, 
From  trifles,  anger  chiefly  springs; 
The  wish  to  please  forsook  each  breast, 
Love's  throne  by  baseless  rage  possess' d : 
Eesolved  to  part,  they  meet  no  more  : 
Enough the  chariot's  at  the  door 


P0WE&  OF  INNOCENCE.  267 

The  mansion  was  my  lady's  own  ; 
Sir  John  resolved  to  live  in  town; 
Writings  were  drawn,,  each  cause  agreed. 
Both  vow'd  they'd  ne'er  recall  the  deed ; 
The  chariot  waits,  why  this  delay  ? 
The  sequel  shall  the  cause  display. 


One  lovely  girl  the  lady  bore, 
Dear  pledge  of  joys  she  tastes  no  more  ; 
The  father's,  mother's  darling ;  she 
Now  lisp'd  and  prattled  on  each  knee  ; 
Sir  John,  when  rising  to  depart, 
Turn'd  to  the  darling  of  his  heart ; 
And  cry'd,  with  ardour  in  his  eye, 
4  Come  Betsy,  bid  mamma  good  bye  ;' 
The  lady,  trembling,  answer'd, 4  no— 
*  Go,  kiss  papa,  my  Betsy,  go  ; 
4  The  child  shall  live  with  me'-— — she  cry'd, 

4  The  child  shall  chuse' -Sir  John  reply'd; 

Poor  Betsy,  look'd  at  each  by  turns, 
And  each  the  starting  tear  di-scerns  ; 
My  lady  asks,  with  doubt  and  fear, 
'Will  you  not  live  with  me,  my  dear? 
4  Yes,  half  resolv'd  reply'd  the  child,, 
And  half  suppress'd  her  tears;  she  smifd, 
4  Come  Betsy,'  cry'd  Sir  John,  '  you'll  go 
4  And  live  with  dear  papa,  I  know/ 
Yes,  Betsy  cry'd — — the  lady  then, 
Address'd-the  wond'ring  child  again  ; 
4  The  time  to  live  with  both  is  o'er, 
4  This  day  we  part  to  meet  no  more  : 
4  Chuse  then,' here,  grief  o'erliow'd  her  breast, 
Aud  tears  burst  oulr  too  long  suppress'd  ; 
The  child  who  tears  and  chiding  join'd, 
SuppOs'd  papa,  displcas'd,  unkind  ; 
And  try'd,  with  all  her  little  skill, 
Xo  soothe  his  oft  relenting  will ; 


268  CRAZY   KATE. 

'  Do,  cry'd  the  lisper,  papa  !  do, 
*  Love  dear  mamma  !  mamma  loves  you  ;' 
Subdued,  the  source  of  manly  pride, 
No  more  his  looks  his  heart  beli'd  ; 
The  tender  transport  forced  its  way, 
*They  both  confcss'd  each  other's  sway; 
And  prompted  by  the  social  smart, 
Breast  rush'd  to  breast,  and  heart  to  heart 
Each  clasp'd  their  Betsy,  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  Tom  drove  empty  from  the  door. 
You  that  have  passions  for  a  tear, 
Give  nature  vent,  and  drop  it  here* 


CRAZY  KATE. 

THERE  often  wanders  one,  whom  better  days 
Saw  better  clad,  in  cloak  of  satin  trimm'd 
With  lace,  and  hat  with  splendid  ribband  bound. 
A  serving  maid  was  she,  and  fell  in  love    * 
With  one  who  left  her,  went  to  sea,  and  died. 
Her  fancy  followed  him  through  foaming  waves 
To  distant  shores",  and  she  would  sit  and  weep 
At  what  a  sailor  suffers.     Fancy  too, 
Delusive  most  where  warmest  wishes  are, 
Would  oft  anticipate  his  glad  return, 
And  dream  of  transports  she  was  not  to  know. 
She  heard  the  doleful  tidings  of  his  death, 
And  never  smiPd  again.     And  now  she  roams 
The  dreary  waste  ;  there  spends  the  livelong  day  j 
And  there,  unless  when  charity  forbids, 
The  livelong  night.     A  tatter'd  apron  hides, 
Worn  as  a  cloak,  and  hardly  hides,  a  gown 
More  tatter'd  still ;  and  both  but  ill  conceal 
A  bosom  heav'd  with  never-ceasing  sighs. 
She  begs  an  idle  pin  of  all  she  meets, 
And  hoards  them  in  her  sleeve  :  but  needful  food 


THE  SEXES.  269 

Tho*  -press'd  with  hunger  oft,  or  comlier  clothes, 

Though  pinch'd  "with  cold,  asks  never Kate  is 

craz'd. 

COWPER. 


THE  SEXES. 

BY    ARMSTRONG. 


TO  brave  each  danger,  bear  each  toil, 
Traverse  the  seas,  subdue  the  soil ; 
To  seek  the  praise  that  learning  yields. 
Or  glory  win  in  martial  fields, 
"Was  man  first  form'd  of  hardy  mould, 
Patient  of  toil,  in  danger  bold : 
Yet  man,  of  all  these  powers  possess'd, 
Remained  unblessing,  and  unbless'd, 
Till  woman  made,  an  helpmate  meet, 
His  happiness  became  complete. 
'Tis  his,  to  clime  fame's  rugged  way, 
His  trophies  at  her  feet  to  lay  : 
'Tis  her's  to  soothe  the  mental  strife, 
And  sweeten  all  the  ills  of  life  : 
.In  man,  each  sterner  art  has  place, 
In  woman,  each  enchanting  grace  ; 
Women  from  men  protection  find, 
And  men  by  women  are  refin'd. 
Man's  form'd  for  bus'ness  and  debate. 
To  govern  and  defend  the  state, 
To  shun  the  scenes  of  private  rest, 
And  stand  in  public  life  confess'd. 
Woman  is  loveliest  when  retir'd; 
When  least  obtrusive,  most  admired* 
In  her,  the  accent  soft  and  low, 
And  blushing  face  most  graceful  show  ; 
Placed  in  the  mild  domestic  sphere, 
With  highest  grace  her  charms  appear  °7 
Y  2    ~ 


270  ODE  TO  THE  GLOW-WORM, 

Expos'd  to  the  broad  glare  of  day, 
Each  modest  beauty  fades  away; 
When  woman  would  be  learn'd  or  great 
She  seeks  whats  foreign  to  her  state  ; 
?Tis  hers  to  know  each  winning  way. 
And  rule,  by  seeming  to  obey. 


ODE  TO  THE  GLOW-WORM. 

BY  PETER  PINDAR. 

BRIGHT  stranger,  welcome  to  my  field, 
Here  feed  in  safety,  here  thy  radiance  yield ; 

To  me,  oh,  nightly  be  thy  splendor  giv'n  : 
Oh  !  could  a  wish  of  mine,the  skies  command, 
How  would  I  gem  thy  leaf,  with  lib'ral  hand, 

With  every  sweetest  dew  of  heav'n  ! 

Say  dost  thou  kindly  light  the  fairy  train, 
Amidst  their  gambols  on  the  stilly  plain, 

Hanging  thy  lamp  upon  the  moisten'd  blade  ? 
What  lamp  so  fit  so  pure  as  thine, 
Amidst  the  gentle  elfin  band  to  shine, 

And  chase  the  horrors  of  the  midnight-shade  ! 

Oh  !  may  no  feather'd  foe  disturb  thy  bow'r, 
And  with  barbarian  beak  thy  life  devour : 

Oh  !  may  no  ruthless  torrent  of  the  sky, 
O'erwhelming,  force  thee  from  thy  dewy  seat, 
Nor  tempests  tear  thee  from  thy  green  retreat, 

And  bid  thee  'midst  the  humming  myriads  die* 

Queenof  the  insect  world,  what  leaves  delight  ? 

Of  such  these  willing  hands  a  bow'r  shall  form, 
To  guard  thee  from  the  rushing  rains  of  night, 

And  hide  thee  from  the  wild  wing  of  the  storm* 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY.  271 

Sweet  child  of  stillness,  'midst  the  awful  calm 
Of  pausing  nature,  thou  art  pleas'd  to  dwell  : 

In  happy  silence  to  enjoy  thy  balm, 

And  shed  through  life  a  lustre  round  thy  cell. 

How  diff 'rent  man,  the  imp  of  noise  and  strife, 
Who  courts  the  storm  that  tears  and  darkens  life  : 

Blest  when  the  passions  wild  the  soul  invade  ! 
How  nobler  far  to  bid  those  whirlwinds  cease ; 
To  taste  like  thee  the  luxury  of  peace, 

And  shine  in  solitude  and  shade. 


YOUNG  LADY  WITH  A  SPINNING  WHEEL 

SYLVIA  !  with  the  wheel  I  send, 
Take  the  hints  "'twas  form'd  to  lend, 
Emblem  this  of  life  is  found, 
While  you  turn  it  round  and  round. 
All  the  years  that  roll  away, 
Are  but  circles  of  a  day  ; 
Still  the  same,  and  still  renew'd, 
While  some  distant  good's  pursu'd 
Distant,  for  we're  never  blest 
Till  the  lab'ring  wheel's  at  rest. 
Then  the  various  thread  is  spun  ; 
Then  the  toil  of  life  is  done. 
Happy  !  if  the  running  twine 
Form'd  a  smooth  and  even  line ; 
Not  a  foul,  and  tangled  clue, 
Not  untimely  snapt  in  two. 
Then  the  full  reward  is  sure? 
Rest  that  ever  shall  endure  ; 
Rest  to  happiness  refin'd, 
Bliss  of  body  and  of  mind» 


(272) 
ODE  TO  PITY. 

BY   WILLIAM  ROSCOE,   ESQ. 

Hail  lovely  pow'r  !  -whose  bosom  heaves  the 
sigh, 

When  Fancy  paints  the  scene  of  deep  distress  : 
Whose  tears  spontaneous  chrystalize  the  eye, 

W7hen  rigid  fate  denies  the  power  to  bless. 

Not  all  the  sweets  Arabia's  gales  convey 

From  flow'ry  meads,  can  with  that    sigh   com- 
pare ; 

Not  dew-drops  glitt'ring  in  the  morning  ray, 
Seem  half  so  beauteous  as  that  falling  tear. 

Devoid  of  fear  the  fawns  around  thee  play  ; 

Emblem  of  peace,  the  dove  before  thee  flies  ; 
No  blood-stain'd  traces  mark  thy  guiltless  way, 

Beneath  thy  feet  no  hapless  insect  dies. 

Come,  lovely  pow'r  !   and  range  the  meads  with 

me, 

To  spring  the  partridge  from  the  guileful  foe  ; 

From  strengthening  snares  the  struggling  bird  to 

free, 

And  stop  the  hand  prepared  to  give  the  blow: 

Or  turn  to  nobler,  greater  tasks,  thy  care, 
To  me  thy  sympathetic  gifts  impart : 

Teach  me  in  friendship's  grief  to  bear  a  share, 
And  justly  boast,  the  generous,  feeling  heart. 

Teach  me  to  soothe  the  helpless  orphan's  grief, 
With  timely  aid  the  widow's  woes  assuage  ; 

To  misery's  moving  cry  to  yiejd  relief, 
And  be  the  sure  resource  of  drooping  age* 


ODE    TO    PATIENCE.  273 

So,  when  the  genial  spring  of  life  shall  fade, 
And  sinking  nature  own  the  dread  decay, 

Some  soul  congenial  then  may  lend  its  aid, 
And  gild  the  close  of  life's  eventful  day. 


ODE  TO  PATIENCE. 

BV   G.  W.   C  ESQ,.    OF   BALTIMORE. 

Nymph  of  ever-placed  mien  ! 
With  humble  look  and  soul  serene 

In  fortune's  adverse  day  ; 
Who  calmly  sit'st  amid  the  storm 
That  bursts  around  thy  angel  form, 

Nor  murmur'st  at  its  sway  : 

Oh  !  now  regardless  of  thy  spell, 
While  heaves  my  aching  bosom's  swell, 

Each  grief,  each  pain  reveal'd  ; 
Still  trembling  in  the  dang'rous  maze 
Where  ills  assail  be  near  to  raise 

Thy  strong  protecting  shield  ! 

Full  many  a  heart,  by  sorrow  tried, 
Has  felt  the  balm  thy  hand  supplied 

To  ease  its  throbbing  woes,— 
As  resignation  lifts  on  high, 
Nor  vainly  so,  the  trusting  eye, 

And  soothes  to  soft  repose. 

Yet  ah  !  upon*  thy  steps  no  less 
The m watchful  fiends  relentless  pie 

To  urge  their  fell  control : 
How  oft  they  point  the  pois'nous  < 


274  ODE    TO    PATIENCE. 

And  aim  to  wound  thy  gentle  heart, 
And  fright  thy  tranquil  soul  ! 

Methinks  I  see  thee  even  now, 

With  hands  compos'd,  and  halcyon  brow 

While  glaring  near  thee  stand 
(Undaunted  thou  beholds't  them  wait) 
The  vengeful  ministers  of  fate, 

A  dreadful,  xuvrn'rous  band  ! 

There  stern  misfortune  sullen  lowers, 
And  chills  the  heavy  passing  hours, 

Mad  anguish  writhing  nigh  : 
And  weeping  misery  and  scorn, 
And  drooping  poverty  forlorn, 

Their  diff'rent  efforts  try  i 

There  curst  ingratitude,  and  lo  ! 
Sly  falshood,  dealing  oft  the  blow 

In  friendship's  specious  guise  ,- 
Whose  hell-born  art  none  can  avoid 
By  sad  experience  fully  tried, 

The  guarded  nor  the  wise  ! 

Tho'  ne'er  invok'd  before,  thy  aid 
Refuse  not  thou,  propitious  maid 

This  warmly  votive  hour : 
A  suppliant  at  thy  shrine  decreed* 
By  many  a  bitter  wrong  to  bleed, 

Implores  thy  pitying  povv'r. 

I 

With  pious  Hope,  thy  sister-friend, 
Oh  J  hither  come,  thy  succour  lend, 

To  quell  this  painful  strife  ; 
And  teach  me  how,  with  rising  thought, 
And  breast  with  conscious  virtue  fraught, 

To  bear  the  ills  of  life, 


(     275     ) 
*TO   A    MOTHER 

ON 

THE  ABSENCE  OF  HER  DAUGHTER. 

By  a  Gentleman  of  Philadelphia. 

OH  !  wherefore  should  those  trembling  tears, 

Successive,  dim  a  mother's  eye! 
Oh,  chase  away  those  useless  fears 

Which  prompt  the  sorrow-freighted  sigh  ! 

Remember  that  the  faithful  dove, 
When  bidden  from  the  ark  to  roam, 

Was  guided  by  a  God  of  love 

And  brought  the  peaceful  olive  home 

So  she,  whose  absence  now  ye  mourn, 

By  no  maternal  fondness  pressed, 
Shall  soon  with  fluttering  heart  return, 

To  plant  the  olive  in  thy  breast. 

Then,  as  the  new-born  rainbow  streamed 
Its  beauteous  colour  o'er  the  skies, 

To  tell  the  wanderers,  redeemed 

From  floods,  that  floods  no  more  should  rise, 

So  she,  when  safe  within  thy  arms, 

With  sweetest  smiles  her  lips  shall  dress, 

To  quiet  all  thy  heart's  alarms 
And  bid  thy  tears  foreyer  cease  ! 

*  These  lines  are  from  the  Port  Folio — they  are 
written  by  «r»  gentleman  who  has  made  many  valua- 
ble communications  to  that  respectable  Miscellany  ; 
and  he  now  conducts  one  of  the  most  interesting  and 
useful  Literary  Miscellanies  published  in  this  country, 


(     276     ) 
EPITAPH    BY    LORD    PALMERSTONE^ 

ON    THE 

DEATH  OF  HIS  WIFE. 

WHOE'ER    like    me    with  trembling    anguish 

brings, 
His  hearts'  whole  treasure  to  fair  Bristol's  springs.; 
Whoe'er  like  me  to.  soothe  disease  and  pain, 
Sh?..ll  seek  these  salutary  springs  in  vain; 
Condemn' d  like  me,  to  hear  the  faint  reply, 
To  mark  the  fading  cheek,  the  sinking  eye ; 
From  the  chill  brow  to  wipe  the  damps  of  death, 
And    watch,    in   dumb    despair,    the    short'ning 

breath  :— 
If  chance  direct  him  to  this  artless  line, 
Let  the  sad  mourner  know  his  pangs  were  mine, 
Ordain'd  to  lose  the  partner  of  my  breast, 
Whose  virtues  warn'd  me,   and  whose  beautiee 

blest ; 
Framed  every  tie  that  binds  the  soul,  to  prove 
Her  duty  friendship,  and  her  friendship  love, 
But  yet  remembering  that  the  parting  sigh, 
Appoints  the  first  to  slumber,  not  to  die, 
The  starting  tear  I  check'd,  I  kiss'd  the  rod, 
And  not  to  earth  resigned  her,  but  to  God. 


EPITAPH 

ON    MRS.    MASON. 


TAKE  holy  earth'  all  that  my  soul4io!ds  dear. 

Take  that  best  gift  which  heavenso  lately  gave 
To  Bristol's  fount,  I  bore  with  trembling  ca 

Her  faded  form— she  bow'd  to  taste  the  wave 


LORD   LYTTLETON'S    MONODY.  277 

And  died.  Does  youth,  does  beauty  read  the  line, 

Does  sympathetic  fear  their  breasts  alarm  t 
Speak  dear  Maria  !  breathe  a  strain  divine  ; 

Ev'n  from  the  grave  thou  shalt  have  power  to 
charm, 
Bid  them  be  chaste,  be  innocent  like  thee  ; 

Bid  them  in  duty's  sphere  as  meekly  move, 
And  if  as  fair,  from  vanity  as  free, 

As  firm  in  friendship,  and  as  kind  in  love. 
Tell  them  though  'tis  an  awful  thing  to  die, 

('Twas  ev'n  to  thee)  yet  the  dread  path  once 
trod, 
Heaven  lifts  its  everlasting  portals  high, 

And  bids  "  the  pure  in  heart  behold  their  God." 


fcROM   LORD   LYTTLETON'S    MONODY 


TO    THL 

MEMORY  OF  HIS  LADY. 

YE  tufted  groves,  ye  gently  falling  rills, 

Ye  high  o'er-shadowing  hills, 
Ye  lawns  gay-smiling  with  eternal  green, 

Oft'  have  you  my  Lucy  seen  ! 
But  never  shall  you  now  behold  her  more  ; 

Nor  will  she  now  with  fond  delight, 
And  taste  refin'd  your  rural  charms  explore, 
ClosM  are  those  beauteous  eves  in  endless  night ! 

In  vain  I  look  aix  und, 

O'er  all  the  well- known  ground, 
My  LucjSs  wonted  footsteps  to  descry; 

Where  oft  we  us'd  to  walk, 

Where  oft  in  tender  talk, 
We  saw  the  summer  sun  go  down  the  sky, 
z 


27a 

Nor  by  yon  fountain's  side, 

Nor  where  its  waters  glide, 
Along  the  valley  can  she  now  be  found, 
In  all  the  wide-stretch'd  prospect's  ample  bound! 

No  more  my  mourmui  eye, 

Can  ought  of  her  espy, 
But  the  sad  sacred  earth  where  her  dear  relics  lie. 
Sweet   babes,  who  like  the  iittie  playful  fawns, 
Were  wont  to  trip  along  these  verdant  lawns, 

By  your  delighted  mother's  side  ; 

"Who  now  your  infant  steps  shall  guide  ? 
Ah  !  where  is  uow  the  hand  whose  tender  care, 
To  every  virtue  would  have  f'orm'd  your  youth, 
And   strew'd  with  flow'rs  the  thorny   ways  of 
truth  : 

Oh  !  loss  beyond  repair  ! 

Oh  !  wretched  father  left  alone, 
To  weep  their  dire  misfortune  and  my  own ! 
Tell  how  her  manners  by  the  world  refin'd, 
Left  all  the  taint  of  modish  vice  behind, 
And  made  each  charm  oi  poiish'd  courts  agree 

With  candid  Truth's  simplicity, 

And  uncorrupted  innocence ! 

Tell  how  to  more  than  manly  sense, 

She  join'd  the  softening  influence, 

Of  more  than  female  tenderness  ? 

A  prudence  undeceiving,  undeceived, 
That,  nor  too  little,  nor  too  much  belie v'd, 
That  scorn'd  unjust  suspicion's  coward  fear, 
And  without  weakness  knew  to  be  sincere. 


(      279     ) 
LINES, 

On  the  death  of  a  Young   Lady,  who  died 'in  Nexo 
'York,    August,   1804. 

Death  ling'ring  strikes — at  his  approach 
The  trembling  spirits  faint  and  die  : 

Pale  sickness  sinks  upon  his  couch, 
And  heaves  the  painful,  parting  sigh. 

In  vain,  for  moments  of  delay, 

Shall  beauty  plead  with  magic  power  ; 

Relentless  he  selects  his  prey, 
And  grasps  the  brightest — sweetest  flower. 

The  youthful  heart,  with  pleasure  wild, 
Elate  with  mirth — with  fancy  gay ; 

Soon  by  his  icy  touch  is  chill'd, 

And  life's  bright  visions  fleet  away. 

Thus  did  Eliza's  moments  fly 

On  wings  of  joy,  with  prospects  fair  ; 

While  cloudless  was  her  present  sky, 
And  hope,  fond  hope  her  guiding  star. 

From  envy's  grasp,  with  malice  arm'd, 
Her  artless  smile  his  weapon  stole  ; 

With  transport  strange  the  monster  warm'd, 
And  wak'd  to  love  his  gloomy  soul. 

But  why  fond  mem'ry — why  recall 

Those  charms  which  late  such  pleasure  gave ; 
Since  now  Eliza — reft  of  all — 

Lies  cold the  tenant  of  the  grave. 

Pale  are  those  cheeks  of  roseate  dye, 
Their  dimpling  smiles  forever  flown  : 

Dim  i9  the  brightness  of  that  eye 

Which  once  with  sparkling  lustre  shone. 


280  TEE  HAKP  Of   SORROW. 

Mute  is  that  voice  whose  accents  sweety 
The  ear  of  fond  attention  drew  ? 

Still  is  that  heart  which  constant  beat, 
To  every  gentle  virtue  true. 

Alas  !  shall  death  forever  reign 

Triumphant  near  each  scene  of  bliss  ? 

Blast  young  desire — turn  joy  to  pain, 
And  riot  on  such  spoil  as  this  ? 

Trail  mortal,  cease— no  longer  mourn 
This  vain  regret — these  murmurs  still : 

The  varying  change  from  nature  learn, 
And  bow  to  the  Almighty  will. 

The  flower,  that  fair  its  bosom  spreads, 

And  joys  to  hail  the  solar  ray, 
At  evening  fades.     Yet  only  fades 

To  bloom  afresh  at  opening  day. 

To  woodlands,  barren  to  the  sight, 
New  foliage  vernal  gales  shall  bring : 

The  insect  sleeps  the  win'try  night, 
And  flutters  on  the  breath  of  spring. 

Thus,  when  death's  long,  long  night  is  o'er. 
In  realms  of  bliss  shall  beauty  rise  ; 

Array %  with  charms  that  fade  no  more, 
In  climes  where  virtue  never  dies. 


THE    HARP    OF    SORROW. 

BY  JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 

Author  of  the  Wanderer  of  Switzerland. 

I  GAVE  my  harp  to  Sorrow's  hand, 
And  she  has  ruled  the  chords  so  long1. 

They  will  not  speak  at  my  command, 
The  v  warble  only  to  her  soner. 


THE  HARP  OF  SORROW.  281 

Of  dear  departed  hours, 

Too  fondly  loved  to  last, 
The  dew,  the  breath,  the  bloom  of  flowers, 

That  died  untimely  in  the  blast; — 

Of  long,  long  years  of  future  care 

Till  lingering  nature  yields  her  breath; 

And  endless  ages  of  despair 

Beneath  the  judgment  day  of  death  ; — 

The  weeping  minstrel  sings, 

And  while  her  numbers  flow, 
My  spirit  trembles  thro7  the  strings, 

And  every  note  is  full  of  woe. 

Would  gladness  move  a  sprightlier  strain, 
And  wake  this  wild  harp's  clearest  tones, 

The  chords,  impatient  to  complain, 
Are  dumb,  or  only  utter  moans. 

And  yet  to  soothe  the  mind 

With  luxury  or  grief, 
The  soul  to  suffering  all  resigned 

In  sorrow's  music  feels  relief. 

Thus  o'er  the  light  JEolian  lyre, 

The  winds  of  dark  November  stray, 

Touch  the  quick  nerve  of  ev'ry  wire 
And  on  its  magic  pulses  play ; 

Till  all  the  air  around, 

Mysterious  murmurs  fill, 
A  strange  bewildering  dream  of  sound, 

Most  heavenly  sweet — yet  mournful  still  > 

O  snatch  the  harp  from  Sorrow's  hand, 

Hope  !  who  hast  been  a  stranger  long  : 
O  strike  it  with  sublime  command, 
And  be  the  poet's  life  thy  son rr. ! 


S82  CHARACTER  OF  WOMEN. 

Of  vanish'd  troubles  sing, 

Of  fears  forever  fled, 
Of  flowers,  that  hear  the  voice  of  spring, 
*And  burst  and  blossom  from  the  dead ! 

Of  home,  contentment,  health,  repose, 
Serene  delights,  while  years  increase  ', 

And  weary  life's  triumphant  close 
In  some  calm  sunset  hour  of  peace  ; 

Of  bliss  that  reigns  above, 

Celestial  May  of  youth, 
Unchanging  as  Jehovah's  love, 

And  everlasting  as  his  truth, 

Sing  heavenly  Hope  ! — and  dart  thy  hand, 
O'er  my  frail  harp,  untuned  so  long; 

That  harp  shall  breathe  at  thy  command. 
Immortal  sweetness  thro'  thy  song. 

Ah  !  then  this  gloom  controul ; 

And  at  thy  voice  will  start 
A  new  creation  in  my  soul, 

And  a  new  Eden  in  my  heart  I 

Sheffield,   Sept.  29,  1806. 


CHARACTER  OF  WOMEN.* 


THROUGH  many  a  land  and  clime  a  ranger, 
With  toiSome  steps,  I've  held  my  way  ; 

A  lonely,  unprotected  stranger, 
To  stranger's  ills  a  constant  prey. 

While  steering  thus  my  course  precarious, 
My  fortune  ever  was  to  find 

*  See  page  58. 


THE  FALLING  TOWER  283 

Men's  hearts  and  dispositions  various, 
But  women  grateful,  true  and  kind. 

Alive  to  ev'ry  tender  feeling, 

To  deeds  of  mercy  always  prone, 
The  wounds  of  pain  and  sorrow  healing, 

With  soft  compassion's  sweetest  tone. 

No  proud  delay,  no  dark  suspicion, 
Taints  the  free  bounty  of  their  heart, 

They  turn  not  from  the  sad  petition, 
But  cheerful  aid  at  once  impart. 

Form'd  in  benevolence  of  nature, 

Obliging,  modest,  gay  and  mild, 
Woman's  the  same  endearing  creature, 

In  conrtlv  town,  or  savatre  wild. 


Roman's  the  same  endearing  crea 
In  courtly  town,  or  savage  wild. 


When  parch'd  with  thirst,  with  hunger  wasted. 
Her  friendly  hand  refreshment  gave  : 

How  sweet  the  coarsest  food  has  tasted, 
How  cordial  was  the  simple  wave  ! 

Her  courteous  looks,  her  words  caressing, 
Shed  comfort  on  the  fainting  soul ; 

Woman's  the  stranger's  gen'ral  blessing, 
From  sultry  India  to  the  Pole. 


THE  FALLING  TOWER. 

MARK  ye  the  Tower  whose  lonely  halls 
Re-echo  to  yon  falling  stream  ? 

Mark  ye  its  bare  and  crumbling  walls, 
While  slowly  fades  the  sinking  beam  ? 


23i  A  CHARACTER. 

There,  oft,  when  eve  in  silent  trance, 

Hears  the  lorn  red- breast's  plaintive  moan  5 
Time,  casting  round  a  cautious  glance, 

Heaves  from  its  base  some  mould'ring  stone- 
There,  tho'  in  time's  departed  day, 

War  wav'd  his  glittering  banners  high; 
Tho'  many  a  minstrel  pour'd  the  lay, 

And  many  a  beauty  tranc'd  the  eye  ; 

Yet  never,  midst  the  gorgeous  scene, 

Midst  the  proud  feasts  of  splendid  pow'r, 

Shone  on  the  pile  a  beam  serene, 
So  bright  as  gilds  its  falling  hour. 

Oh  !  thus  when  life's  gay  scenes  shall  fade? 

And  pleasure  lose  its  wonted  bloom, 
When  creeping  age  shall  bare  my  head, 

And  point  to  me  the  silent  tomb ; 

Then  may  religion's  hallow'd  flame 
Shed  on  my  mind  its  mildest  ray; 

And  bid  it  seek  in  purer  frame 
One  bright  eternity  of  day. 


A  CHARACTER. 

OF  gentle  manners,  and  of  taste  renVd, 
With  all  the  graces  of  a  polish'd  mind  ; 
Clear  sense  and  truth  still  shone  in  all  she  spoke, 
And  from  her  lips  no  idle  sentence  broke. 
Each  nicer  elegance  of  art  she  knew  ; 
Correctly  fair,  and  regularly  true. 
Her  ready  fingers  ply'd  with  equal  skill 
The  pencil's  task,  the  needle  or  the  quill. 
So  pois'd  her  feelings,  so  compos'd  her  soul, 
So  subject  all  to  reason's  calm  controul, 


THE  ROSE.  2« 

One  only  passion,  strong  and  unconnn'd, 
Disturb'd  the  balance  of  her  even  mind  : 
One  passion  rul'd  despotic  in  her  breast, 
In  every  word,  and  look,  and  thought  confest : 
But  that  was  love,  and  love  delights  to  bless 
The  gen'rous  transports  of  a  fond  excess. 

MRS.   BARCAULD, 


THE  ROSE. 

BY    COWPER. 

THE  Rose  had  been  wash'd,  lately  wash'd  in  a 
show'r, 

Which  Mary  to  Anna  convey'd, 
The  plentiful  moisture  encumber' d  the  fiow'r, 

And  weigh'd  down  its  beautiful  head. 

The  cup  was  all  fiU'd  and  the  leaves  were  all  wet, 

And  it  seem'd  to  a  fanciful  view, 
To  weep  for  the  buds  it  had  left  with  regret, 

On  the  flourishing  bush,  where  it  grew. 

I  hastily  seiz'd  it,  unfit  as  it  was, 

For  a  nosegay,  so  dripping  and  drown'd, 

And  swinging  it  rudely,  too  rudely,  alas  ! 
I  snapp'd  it,  it  fell  to  the  ground. 

And  such,  I  exclaim'd  is  the  pitiless  part 

Some  act  by  the  delicate  mind, 
Regardless  of  wringing  and  breaking  a  heart 

Already  to  sorrow  resign'd. 

This  elegant  rose,  had  I  shaken  it  less, 

Might  have  bloom'd  with  its  owner  a  while, 

And  the  tear,  that  is  wip'd  with  a  little  address, 
May  be  folio w'd,  perhaps  with  a  smile. 


(     286     ) 
PIOUS  EFFUSION. 

BY   A  LADY  OF   BALTIMORE. 

SAVIOUR  of  sinners  !  hear  thy  creature's  prayeY, 

And  soothe  a  mind  opprest  with  cv'ry  care. 

Oh  !  let  thy  word  sustain  my  bleeding  breast, 

And  calm  the  tumults  of  my  soul  to  rest. 

May  I  submissive  kiss  the  chast-'ning  rod 

And,  tho'  in  agonies,  auore  my  God. 

When  the  world  frowns,  and  woe  to  woe  succeeds, 

When  folly  triumphs,  and  when  virtue  bleeds, 

Let  not  my  soul  despon J,  but  fixed  on  Thee, 

Pursue  the  prize  of  blest  eternity. 

Firm  to  that  view,  let  me  superior  rise 

To  all  the  ills  of  life,  and  claim  the  skies. 

Oh  !  may  that  gall  which  to  my  God  was  giv'n 

Vanquish  the  world,  and  raise  my  soul  to  heav'n  ; 

And  when  death  o'er  me  waves  his  potent  wand* 

Oh  !  may  I  join  the  great  celestial  band, 

To  all  eternity  to  sing  thy  praise, 

And  know  no  end  of  happiness  or  days. 


SONG. 

BY    AKENSIDE- 

THE  shape  alone  let  others  prize, 
The  features  of  the  fair  ! 

I  look  for  spirit  in  her  eyes, 
And  meaning  in  her  air. 

A  damask  cheek,  and  iv'ry  arm> 
Shall  ne'er  my  wishes  win : 


THE  SISTERS  CHOICE.  23X 

Give  me  an  animated  form, 
That  speaks  a  mind  within. 

A  face  where  awful  honour  shines, 
Where  sense  and  sweetness  move, 

And  angel  innocence  refines 
The  tenderness  of  love. 

These  are  the  soul  of  beauty's  frame, 

Withoiit  whose  vital  md 
U  itinkhM  all  her  featured  seem, 

And  'ill  U  r  roses  dead. 

But  ah  !  where  both  their  charms  unite, 

How  perfect  13  tii  ■  view, 
With  every  image  bt  delight, 

With  graces  ever  new  ! 

Of  power  to  charm  the  greatest  woe  ; 

The  wildest  rage  controul; 
Diffusing  mildness  o'er  the  brow, 

And  rapture  thro'  the  soul. 

Their  power  but  faintly  to  express, 

All  language  must  despair; 
But  go,  behold  Arpasia's  face, 

And4 read  it  perfect  there. 


THE  SISTERS  CHOICE; 

OR, 
JUDGMENT  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

NEAR  Avon's  banks,  a  cultural  spot, 
With  many  a  turf  of  flow'rs  adorn'd, 

Was  once  an  aged  shepherd's  cot, 

W110  scenes  of  greater  splendor  sconVd. 


288  THE  SISTERS  CHOICE, 

Three  beauteous  daughters  blest  his -bed, 
Who  made  the  little  plat  their  care; 

And  ev'ry  sweet  by  Flora  spread,  •» 
Attentive  still  they  planted  there. 

Once,  when  still  ev'ning  v;il7d  die  s*:y, 

The  sire  walk'd  for:h  ai>d  sought  the  bow'r ; 

And  bade  the  lovely  maids  draw"  rjgh, 
And  each  select  some  favrrite  flow  >r. 

The  frst  with  radiant  splendor  charm'd, 

A  variegated  Tulip  chose  ; 
The  next  with  love  of  beauty  warm'd, 

Prefer'd  the  sweetly-blushing  Rose* 

The  third,  who,  mark'd  with  depth  of  thought, 
How  these  bright  flow'rs  must  droop  away  ; 

An  ev'ning  Primrose  only  brought, 
Which  opens  with  the  closing  day. 

The  sage  awhile  in  silence  view'd 

The  various  choice  of  flow'rs  display'd  ; 

And  then  (with  wisdom's  gift  endued) 
Address'd  each  beauteous  list'mng  maid  : 

"  Who  chose  the  Tulip's  splendid  dyes, 
Shall  own,  too  late,  when  that  decays ; 

That  vainly  proud,  not  greatly  wise, 
She  only  caught  a  short  liv'd  blaze : 

"  The  Rose,  though  beauteous  leaves  and  sweet, 

It's  glorious  vernal  pride  adorn, 
Let  her  who  chose,  beware  to  meet 

The  biting  sharpness  of  its  thorn. 

il  But  she,  who  to  fair  day-light's  train, 
The  ev'ning-jlow'r  more  just  prefeir'd; 


THE  JOY  OF  GRIEF.  289 

Chose  real  worth,  nor  chose  in  vain, 
The  one  great  object  of  regard. 

a  Ambitious  thou,  the  Tulip  race, 
In  all  life's  varied  course  beware  ; 

Nor  let  sweet  pleasure's  rosy  grace, 
With  all  its  sharper  thorns  ensnare. 

"  Thou,  prudent  still,  to  virtue's  lore 
Attend  and  mark  her  counsels  sage  ; 

She,  like  thy^c?tt>V,  has  charms  in  store. 
To  soothe  the  ev'ning  of  thine  age.'' 

He  ceas'd — attend  the  moral  strain, 

The  muse  enlighten'd  pours ; 
Nor  let  her  pencil  trace  in  vain 

The  judgment  of  the  fiow'rs. 


«  THE  JOY  OF  GRIEF."— ossia: 

BY    MONTGOMERY. 

* 

SWEET  the  hour  of  tribulation, 
When  the  heart  can  freely  sigh ; 

And  the  tear  of  resignation 
Twinkles  in  the  mournful  eye. 

Have  you  felt  a  kind  emotion 

Tremble  through  your  troubl'd  breast ; 
♦  Soft  as  evening  o'er  the  ocean 

When  she  charms  the  waves  to  rest  ? 

Have  you  lost  a  friend,  or  brother  ? 

Heard  a  father's  parting  breath  ? 
Gaz'd  upon  a'ii/elcss  mother, 

'Till  she  seem'd  to  wake  from  death  ? 


^90  THE  JOY  OF  GRIEF. 

Have  you  felt  a  spouse  expiring, 
In  your  arms,  before  your  view  ? 

Watch'd  the  luveiy.soul  retiring, 
From  the  eyes  that  broke  on  you? 

Did  not  grief  then  grow  romantic 
Raving  on  remembtr'd  bliss  ? 

Did  you  not,  with  fervour  irantic, 
Kiss  the  iips  that  felt  no  kiss  ?    " 

Horror  then  your  heart  congealing, 
ChilPd  you  with  intense  despair ; 

Can  you  recollect  the  feeling  ? 
No  !  there  was  no  feeling  there* 

From  that  gloomy  trance  of  sorrow, 
When  you  woke  to  pangs  unknown, 

How  unwelcome  was  the  morrow, 
For  it  rose  on  you  alone  I 

Suuk  in  self-consuming  anguish, 
Can  the  poor  heart  always  ache  ? 

No,  the  torturM  nerve  will  languish, 
Or  the  strings  of  life  must  break. 

O'er  the  yielding  brow  of  sadness, 
One  faint  srnileof  comfort  stole  ; 

One  soft  pang  of  tender  gladness 
Exquisitely  thrilPd  your  soul. 

While  the  wounds  of  woe  are  healing, 
While  the  heart  is  all  resign'd, 

5Tis  the  solemn  feast  of  feeling, 
5Tis  the  sabbath  of  the  mind. 

Pensive  mem'ry  then  retraces 
Scenes  of  bliss  forever  fled, 

Lives  in  former  times  and  places, 
Holds  communion  with  th*  dead. 


THE  DOVES.  291 

And  when  night's  prophetic  slumbers 

Rend  the  veil  to  mortal  ey£s, 
From  their  tombs  the  sainted  numbers 

Of  your  lost  companions  rise. 

You  have  seen  a  friend,  a  brother, 

Heard  a  dear  dead  lather  speak, 
Prov'd  the  fondness  of  a  mother, 

Felt  her  tears  upon  your  cheek. 

Dreams  of  love  your  grief  beguiling, 
You  have  clasp'd  a  consort's  charms, 

And  received  your  infant  smiling, 

From  his  mother's  sacred  arms.  A 

Trembling,  pale  and  agonizing, 

While  you  mourn'd  the  vision  gone, 

Bright  the  morning  star  arising, 

Open'd  heaven,  from  whence  it  shone. 

Thither  all  your  wishes  bending 

Rose  in  extacy  sublime, 
Thither  all  your  hopes  ascending 

Triumph'd  over  death  and  time. 

Thus  afflicted,  bruised  and  broken, 
Have  you  known  such  sweet  relief? 

Yes,  my  friend  !  and  by  this  token, 

You  have  known  "  The  Joy  of  Grief v9 


THE  DOVES. 


REASONING  at  every  step  he  treads, 

Man  yet  mistakes  his  way, 
While  meaner  things  whom  instinct  leads^ 

Are  rarely  known  to  stray. 


292,  THE  DOVES. 

One  silent  eve  I  wander'd  late, 
And  heard  the  voice  of  love ; 

The  turtle  thus  address'd  her  mate, 
And  sooth'd  the  list'ning  dove — 

Our  mutual  bond  of  faith  and  truth, 

No  time  shall  disengage  ; 
Those  blessings  of  our  early  youth 

Shall  cheer  our  latest  age  : 

While  innocence  without  disguise, 

And  constancy  sincere, 
Shall  fill  the  circles  of  those  eyes, 

And  mine  can  read  them  there ; 

Those  ills  that  wait  on  all  below 

Shall  ne'er  be  felt  by  me, 
Or,  gently  felt,  and  only  so, 

As  being  shar'd  with  thee. 

When  lightnings  flash  among  the  trees, 
Or  kites  are  hovering  near, 

I  fear  lest  thee  alone  they  seize, 
And  know  no  other  fear. 

'Tis  then  I  feel  myself  a  wife, 
And  press  thy  wedded  side, 

Resolv'd  an  union  form?d  for  life 
Death  never  shall  divide. 

But  oh  !  if  fickle  and  unchaste, 
(Forgive  a  transient  thought) 

Thou  couldst  become  unkind  at  last, 
And  scorn  thy. present  lot; 

No  need  of  lightnings  from  on  higln 

Or  kites  with  cruel  beak  ; 
Denied  thJ  endearments  of  thine  eye,. 

This  widow'd  heart  would  break. 


MUTUAL  FORBEARANCE.  293 

Thus  sang  the  sweet  sequestered  bird 

Soft  as  the  passing  wind, 
And  I  recorded  what  I  heard — 

A  lesson  for  mankind. 


MUTUAL  FORBEARANCE 

Necessaryto  the  happiness  of  the  married  state 

THE  lady  thus  address'd  her  spouse — 
Wnat  a  mere  dungeon  is  this  house ! 
By  no  means  large  enough ;  and  was.  it, 
Yet  this  dull  room,  and  that  dark  closet — 
Those  hangings,  with  their  worn-out  graces, 
Long  beards,  long  noses  and  pale  faces — 
Are  such  an  antiquated  scene, 
They  overwhelm  me  with  the  spleen  ! 
Sir  Humphrey,  shooting  in  the  dark, 
Makes  answer  quite  beside  the  mark  : 
No  doubt,  my  dear,  I  bade  him  come, 
Engag'd  myself  to  be  at  home, 
And  shall  expect  him  at  the  door, 
Precisely  when  the  clock  strikes  four. 

You  are  so  deaf,  the  lady  cry'd, 
(And  rais'd  her  voice,  and  frown'd  beside  ) 
\\,u  are  so  sadly  deaf,  my  dear, 
jft.hat  shall  I  do  10  make  you  hear  ? 

Dismiss  poor  Harry  !  he  replies  ; 
Some  p<  ople  are  more  nice  than  wise — 
I  or  ui  ■-  sligh'.  trespass  all  rhis  stir  ? 
What  if  he  dm  ride  whip  and  spur, 
5Twas  bat  a  mil-; — your  favorite  horse 
Will  never  look  one  hair  the  worse. 
a  a  2 


294  MUTUAL  FORBEARANCE. 

Well,  I  protest,  'tis  past  all  bearing — 
Child  !  I  am  rather  hard  of  hearing — 
Yes,  truly — one  must  scream  and  bawl — ■ 
I  tell  you,  you  can't  hear  at  all ! 
Then,  with  a  voice  exceeding  low, 
No  matter  if  you  hear  or  no. 

Alas  !  and  is  domestic  strife, 
That  sorest  ill  of  human  life, 
A  plague  so  little  to  be  fear'd, 
As  to  be  wantonly  incurr'd, 
To  gratify  a  fretful  passion, 
On  every  trivial  provocation  ? 
The  kindest  and  the  happiest  pair 
Will  find  occasion  to  forbear ; 
And  something,  every  day  they  live, 
To  pity,  and  perhaps,  forgive. 
But  if  infirmities  that  fall 
In  ccmmon  to  the  lot  of  all — 
A  blemish  or  a  sense  impair' d — 
Are  crimes  so  little  to  be  spar'd, 
Then  farewell  ail  that  must  create 
The  comfort  of  the  wedded  state  .; 
Instead  of  harmony,  'tis  jar 
And  tumult,  and  intestine  war. 

The  love  that  cheers Jife's  latest  stage. 
Proof  against  sickness  and  old  age, 
Preserv'd  by  virtue  from  declension, 
Becomes  not  weary  of  attention ; 
But  lives,  when  that  exterior  grace 
Which  first  inspir'd  the  flame  decays. 
?Tis  gentle,  delicate  and  kind, 
To  faults  compassionate  or  blind, 
And  will  with  sympathy  endure 
Those  evils  it  would  gladly  cure  : 
But  angry,  coarse  and  harsh  expression 
Shows  love  to  be  a  mere  profession  ^ 


VERSES  BY  ALEXANDER  SELKIRK.  293 

Proves  that  the  heart  is  none  of  his, 
Or  soon  expels  him  if  it  is. 


VERSES 


Supposed  to  be  written  by  Alexander  Selkirk,  dur 
ing  his  solitary  abode  in  the  island  of  Juan  Fer- 
nandez. 

I  AM  monarch  of  all  I  survey, 
My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute ; 

From  the  centre  ail  round  to  the  sea, 
•  I  am  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute. 

Oh,  solitude  !   where  are  the  charms 
That  saq;es  have  seen  in  thy  face  ? 

Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms, 
Than  reign  in  this  horrible  place. 

I  am  out  of  humanity's  reach, 

I  must  finish  my  journey  alone, 
Never  hear  the  sweet  music  of  speech  ; 

I  start  at  the  sound  of  my  own. 
The  beasts,  that  roam  over  the  plain. 

My  lorm  with  indifference  see ; 
They  are  so  unacquainted  with  man, 

Their  tameness  is  shocking  to  me. 

Society,  friendship  and  love, 

Divinely  besiow'd  upon  man, 
Oh.  had  I  the  wings  of  a  dove, 

How  soon  would  I  taste  you  again  : 
My  sorrows  1  then  might  assuage 

In  the  wavs  of  religion  and  truth, 
Might  karn  from  th<   wisdom  of  age, 

And  be  cheer'd  by  the  sallies  of  youth. 

Religion  !  what  treasure  untold 
Resides  in  that  heavenly  word  ! 


296  VERSES  BY  ALEXANDER  SELKIRK.: 

More  precious  than  silver  or  gold, 
Or  all  that  this  earth  can  affordr 

But  the  sound  of  the  church- going  bell 
These  vallies  and  rocks  never  heard, 

Never  sigh'd  at  the  sound  of  a  knell, 
Or  smil'd-when  a  Sabbath  appear'd. 

Ye  winds,  that  have  made  me  your  sport, 

Convey  to  this  desolate  shore 
Some  cordial  endearing  report 

Of  a  land  I  shall  visit  no  more. 
My  friends,  do  they  now  and  then  send 

A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me  .? 
O  tell  me  I  yet  have  a  friend, 

Though  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see. 

How  fleet  is  a  glance  of  the  mind! 

Compared  with  the  speed  of  its  flight, 
The  tempest  itself  lags  behind, 

And  the  swift  winged  arrows  of  light/ 
When  I  think  of  my  own  native  land, 

In  a  moment  I  seem  to  be  there  ; 
But  alas  !  recollection  at  hand   - 

Soon  hurries  me  back  to  despair. 

The  sea- fowl  is  gone  to  her  nest, 

The  beast  is  laid  down  in  his  lair, 
Even  here  is  a  season  of  rest, 

And  I  to  my  cabin  repair. 
There's  mercy  in  every  place  ; 

And  mercy,  encouraging  thought ! 
Gives  even  affliction  a  grace, 

And  reconciles  man  to  his  lot. 


(     297     ) 
COMPLAINTS  OF  THE  POOR. 

AND  wherefore  do  the  poor  complain? 

The  rich  man  asked  of  me, 
Come  walk  abroad  with  me,  I  said, 

And  I  will  answer  thee.     ««         ^.  • 

Twas  ev'ning,  and  the  frozen  streets  «>  v  •< 

Were  cheerless  to  behold,  p  " 

And  we  were  wrapt  and  coated  well, 

And  yet  were  very  cold.  *( 

We  met  an  old  bare-headed  man,  , 

His  locks  were  few  and  white  ; 
I  ask'd  him  what  he  did  abroad 

In  that  cold  winter's  night. 

'Twas  bitter  cold,  indeed,  he  said, 

At  home  no  fire  had  he, 
And  therefore  he  had  come  abroad 

To  ask  for  charity. 

We  met  a  young  bare-footed  child, 

And  she  begg'd  loud  and  bold  ; 
I  asked  her  what  she  did  abroad — 

The  wind  it  blew  so  cold. 

She  said  her  father  was  at  home, 

And  he  lay  sick  in  bed, 
And  therefore  was  it  she  was  sent 

Abroad  to  beg  for  bread. 

We  saw  a  woman  sitting  down 

Upon  a  stone  to  rest, 
She  had  a  baby  at  her  back — 

Another  at  her  breast : 


298  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

I  ask'd  her  why  she  loiter'd  there — 

The  wind  it  was  so  chill  ?  . 
She  turn'd  her  head  and  bade  the  chil4, 
,  That  scream'd  behind,  be  still. 

She  told  usAhat  her  husband  serv'd 

A  ^olfli'e'rnfar  aVa^ 
lAntl  therefore  to  her-  parish  she 
.  Was  begging  hack  her  way* 

'■ 
I  turn'd  me  to  the  rich  man  then. 

For  silently  stood  he, 
You  ask'd  me  why  the  poor  complain^ 
And  these  have  answer'd  thee» 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY, 

With  a  nosegay. 

THOU  canst  not  steal  the  rose's  bloom 

To  decorate  thy  face 
But  the  sweet  blush  of  modesty 

Will  lend  an  equal  grace. 

These  violets  scent  the  distant  gale, 

(Beneath,  in  lowly  bed) 
So  rising  worth  new  merit  gains, 

By  diffidence  o'erspread. 

Nor  wilt  thou  e'er  that  lily's  white 

In  thy  complexion  find  ; 
Yet  innocence  may  shine  as  fair 

Within  thy  spotless  mind. 

Now,  in  the  opening  spring  of  life, 
Let  every  flowret  bloom ; 


BEAUTY.  299 


The  budding  virtues  in  thy  breast 
Shall  yield  the  best  perfume. 


soffPp 


This  nosegay  in  thy  bosoHFplac'd, 

A  moral  may  convey 
Eor  soon  its  brightest  tints 

And  ail  its  sweets  decay 

So  short  livV  arc  the  loveT 

Of  Flora's  transient  reig 
They  bud,  blow,  wither,  fall  a: 

Then  turn  to  earth  again. 

And  thus,  my  dear,  must  ev'ry  charm, 
Which  youth  is  proud  to  share, 

Alike  this  quick  succession  prove, 
And  tht  same  truth  declare. 

Sickness  will  change  the  roseate  hue, 
Which  glowing  health  bespeaks ; 

And  age  will  wrinkle.^with  its  cares, 
The  smile  on  beauty's  cheeks. 

But  as  that  fragrant  myrtle  wreath 

Will  all  the  rest  survive, 
So  shall  the  mental  graces  still 

Through  endless  ages  live. 


BEAUTY, 

A    MORAL    REFLECTION. 


"  The  wind  passetk  over  it,  and  it  is  gOm" 

HIGH  on  the  splendid  polish'd  stem 

A  fragrant  lilly  grew  ; 
On  the  pure  petals  many  a  gem 


300  BEAUTY. 

Glittered  a  native  diadem 

Of  healthy  morning  c^w  : 
A  blast  of  ling'ring  wVBb  came 
the  stem  in  two. 

rairer  than  m ■»  nik^early  tear, 
Or  lily's  snowy'bh  A, 
Shines  >  bau  i  y  in  its  \»nal  year, 
Bright,  sparkling,  ia^pating,  clear, 
Gay,  thou|  itlesBpF  its  doom  ! 
?ath  breatneHWiaden  poison  near, 
And  sweeps  it  to  the  tomb. 


FINIS. 


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